by G Lawrence
Henry laughed heartily, and even the dour Charles smiled. I could almost hear my father’s inward sigh of relief that I had not disgraced our family with my boldness. “You heard of my playing in France?” Henry asked, shaking his head. “Then perhaps the French do listen to something other than the amours of the heart after all, eh?” He looked about him and the Queen smiled softly at her husband. “I shall play then this evening, Mistress Boleyn, to please you.”
The court cheered, sycophantically, Henry moved his hand to hush them. “After all,” he said looking deep in my eyes. “I would not deny any pleasure to you… that I was able to give.”
I felt a little flush reach over my cheeks, and for a moment, Katherine’s face seemed to freeze. I saw her jaw twitch slightly, and then she resumed the gentle smile that she wore for the eyes of the court. I lowered my head and curtseyed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I murmured.
Chapter Eleven
Windsor Castle
1522
My father led me back to the musicians and gave me a single nod, denoting that I had done well, and then a slight shake of the head, indicating that I had perhaps also almost given him a fit of apoplexy. He walked off, leaving me to allow a little smile to dance about my lips as I watched his back retreat through the crowds. It was rather satisfying to catch my wily father off-guard.
As I readied myself for the performance, my heart was racing and my fingers felt like sticks of wood. I breathed in and out deeply, steadying my nerves with the well-practised methods I had used over and over in the years I had performed at court functions. I took up the lute in my hands and readied myself. I had danced for this court, and now they would hear my voice. It was a beautiful one, and I was most proud of it. Years of training in Burgundy and France had allowed my once-raw talent to be shaped and moulded into a high, sweet and true voice that flew along the edges of notes with clarity and timbre.
I finished the first measure of The Agincourt Carol, accompanied only by the lute I held in my arms, and then as I took up the next chorus, the other two female voices, those of Margaret and Bridget, came in with mine and male voices, George amongst them, took up the bass line. It was an old song, and a haunting one, of the great victory of the English over the French during the reign of Henry V. I knew that the song would appeal to Henry’s taste for war, and to the general court sentiment of anti-French feeling as the negotiations between the Spanish and the English progressed. This was why George and I had chosen it. It was a clever move. The song needed little accompaniment. I sang the main verse, and the others joined me upon the chorus giving praise to God. It went thusly:
Our King went forth to Normandy,
With grace and might of chivalry
There God for him wrought marvellously
Wherefore England may call and cry:
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro Victoria!
He set a siege, the truth to say
To Harfleur town with royal array
That town he won, and made a fray
That France shall rue ‘till Doomesday
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro Victoria!
Then went our King with all his host,
Through France, for all the Frenchmen’s boast;
He spared no dread of least or most
‘Till he came to Agincourt coast.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro Victoria!
Then, forsooth, that knight comely,
In Agincourt field he fought manly;
Through grace of God most mightily
He had both field and victory.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro Victoria!
There duke and earl, lord and baron
Were taken and slain, and that well soon,
And some were led into London
With joy and mirth and great renown.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro Victoria!
May gracious God He keep our King
His people that are well willing
And give him grace without ending
Then we may call and safely sing:
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro Victoria!
Poignant, politically safe and polished, we came to the counterbalanced end that hung on the last lingering note. As we finished, the people of the court stood silent for a moment, and then broke into loud applause. I smiled at George; we had much amazed them, and so our plans had worked. I looked up and saw that Henry, too, was clapping his hands with great enthusiasm. He turned to Charles, saying something I could not hear, and the young Emperor smiled, clapping his hands in a slightly more measured way than our own King. Henry’s eyes sparkled with pleasure and his eyes were fixed on my face. Henry was deeply moved by music, and I knew that we had chosen a good song which had pleased him. We rose and bowed and returned to our places.
I was flushed with pleasure and success. As I joined the throng, Tom Wyatt slid in beside me. “It would seem,” he said in a low voice as he handed me a pewter goblet of wine, “that your shameless flattery of the King may have added a royal admirer to your growing crowd!”
I went to cuff him, but he danced free of my ready hand, laughing. “Just forget not those who have long admired you and will always do so,” he said softly as he came back to my side.
“I will never forget my friends, Tom.” I looked into his handsome fine-boned face, feeling a little regret not for the first time that he could only ever be my courtly admirer. “And it was but one line of flattery I offered. You should know how little store I set by such.”
“Ah, but the King does, you see…” Tom grinned at me, whispering. “He believes himself great in many ways and the flattery of the court is but truth to his ears.” Tom inhaled deeply as Henry took up the central platform to perform amid the shouts and cheers of the court. “Although,” Tom said grudgingly, “I will say this honestly; that the King is a fine musician and there are few that can match him.”
“Indeed?” I asked, interested, for what I had said before the King was just court flattery.
“Oh yes,” Tom looked over as Henry readied himself to play. “He has a great talent for music, although I would add, and add quietly to only you, that his playing is better than his poetry.” I stifled a giggle; were we to be overheard by unfriendly ear, such words could get us in a lot of trouble. Tom smirked at me, even as his sister Margaret opened her eyes wide and shook her head in warning at him.
Henry began his song; his fingers, large and broad though they were, flew like the most delicate and quick of birds over the notes of his song. His voice was rich and deep, it was true to each note, and his range was broad. His light touch upon the nine-stringed lute was matched by the masculine depth of his voice. There was passion in his voice as he sung a song of love and knighthood. It was not a song I had heard, but evidently all at court had, as some were tapping feet and murmuring along with the song as he sang it. The rest of the hall was silent and all eyes and attention were for Henry only. I looked about the hall and saw that people were captivated by him; this king who looked so like a warrior and yet sung like the very poet of love. It was beautiful, it was good, and with a slightly rueful heart I knew it was better than that which I had sung before.
As Henry finished, the court burst into applause, and as I joined in, I glimpsed Queen Katherine on her dais. Her hand was poised on the arm of her chair, and she seemed not to notice the words of flattery her nephew was whispering to her. Her face was so alive suddenly, applauding her husband; this golden sun-king who contrasted so sharply with her wasted appearance. It was as though Henry had taken all the life of the two, and she was left with all the semblance of decay. But now, watching him, it was as though light and love had come into her again, like the rays of the first dawn creeping into a darkened room. She truly loves him, I thought, it could be no clearer to me than it was now. She drew lif
e from him; he was the source of her happiness, such as it was… With her husband, she still knows joy in this life. The thought made me sad, slightly. Perhaps it was a sense of pity for her. For however much Katherine might adore her handsome, younger husband, it was clear that her feelings were not reciprocated in kind. Respect her, he may well do… need her, in this coming treaty, he did… but love? I wondered. Perhaps it had once been there between them, but after all the years they had been married, I wondered if he still loved her as he was supposed to have done when they were first wed. He, certainly, did not look at her with the same eyes that she had for him. He looked on her kindly… calmly… She looked on him with fire and love.
Poor Katherine, I thought then… for it is poor to be the one who loves more than the other will give. There is poverty in such love; she must beg love of him. They were not equals, however much they might look the part on their dais, for he did not love her as she loved him. What sadness there was to be found in marriage… even when one finds love… if it is not returned in kind, I thought.
I shook myself of such ponderous and sad thoughts. At the end of the hall I saw the swift movement of court servants, who had tarried at the doors to hear their King’s singing; they disappeared quickly in case anyone should see them at rest from their work. I saw the lightened look on the faces of the people around him. Henry was loved, greatly, by his people, and this was something that despite everything that happened in later times, he would never lose. He always had that ability to make those around him care for him, adore him.
After Henry had returned to his chair and the cheering had subsided, a group of singers came on to sing the country song Bring us in Good Ale which was received well. A rougher song; it was far less elegant than those tunes that had gone before, but the men loved to hear it, as it was a song that they could sing along to without needing to be able to sing well. Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, sang boisterously along with the others, banging his pewter goblet on his hand. His wife, Mary Tudor, looked on this behaviour with a little frown. I wondered if at times she found him as crass as I did.
I was still captivated by the echoes of Henry’s song in my heart. Tom’s words had been true; there were no princes I had heard sing that could match him, not even the cultured François. There were few men I had ever heard who were the match of him. I loved music, and song; they were a part of my spirit as were the beats of my heart and the flowing of my blood. I admired Henry greatly for his talents and for his voice. A feeling of warmth opened in my heart, knowing that we shared a passion. Now he sat, flushed with pleasure at his queen’s side and still I felt that feeling, that compelling feeling, drawing me to him. Quite simply, Henry, King of England, was the most attractive man I had ever met, not only in his looks, but in his talents. I once again flared with jealousy towards my sister who shared his bed. I wondered what they talked of in private. Did they talk of songs and music? Did he play for her? Had that song of love been for her? I believe I liked him even more, to find that we enjoyed something in common, and that thought made my heart throb with the pangs of envy for my sister.
I shook myself slightly; these were fool’s thoughts and I was no fool. It mattered little that I desired him; most women in the world must desire him after all. He could not be mine. He already had a wife and a mistress… what could I be to him? Another mistress? That was not what I wanted. I sighed a little inwardly. Tom… The King… both were attractive to me, and both were entirely distant from my grasp. Was I only to meet and be attracted to men that I could not have as my own? And when I was presented with a possible husband, such as James Butler… was I only to be presented with situations in life I wanted not? My sister had a husband she liked, a lover she enjoyed, and she had a place at court, where I wished to stay! Although I did not want to be a mistress, I found jealousy’s sharp little teeth tearing into my flesh. My sister had two good men, and I had none. Where was the man to whom I could be free to release my heart? Perhaps he did not exist. Perhaps my expectations were too high. I looked at Katherine again. Would I too, some day, look on my own husband with such eyes of desperate adoration? Should I not be happy to take what my father and family decided for me, and hope for the best, as so many had done?
But there was yet something within me that seemed to whisper comfort to me. It told me that there would come a time when I would love, and not fear to give my heart to one who deserved it. There would be a man with whom I would not have to compromise either my own wishes, or my virtues to have… one day, there would be a man for me.
I must marry; it was the way of things. If I did not find myself a suitable husband, then one would be found by my father, and I could not predict where his ambitions might send me… No, I must find a man whom I could truly love, and marry with… a match that would keep me here in England, and a match that my father would allow me to take.
I danced with Tom that evening in a pre-occupied way that I believe he noticed, although he paid no comment to it. After the dance he asked me to walk with him in the private gardens. I hesitated. Warning memories of France, and the monster who tried to take what I would not give freely, sounded in my mind like cannon fire. But I consented to walk with him near to the parties of people in the centre of the gardens who were playing music and singing still. My brother was close by, and although I trusted Tom, I was more careful now than I had ever been when I was a young girl. Close to the others we should stay.
Tom took my hand in his as we walked out through the scented knot gardens of Windsor; the gardens were designed for pleasure, modelled on the French gardens at Bloise. I allowed my hand to remain in his; it was warm and had comfort to it.
“Anne, do you believe that love exists between men and women despite the restraints of society and rank?” he asked softly as we wandered.
“Yes,” I sighed a little, “although even if it exists it is not always possible.”
Tom looked out over the garden. The light of the moon was not full, but nearly so; it made his handsome face silver in its light, like a statue of old. “And for you and me?” He turned his eyes from mine, even as he asked, because he already knew my answer.
“No,” I said softly. “Not because it is not possible, but because you could never be mine in truth.”
Tom turned to me and grabbed me suddenly, with force, and turned my lips to his. Although my feet prepared for flight at his sudden movement, the gentleness with which he held me, as his lips sought the feeling of mine, caused me to stay. Tom did not hold aggression towards me, I could feel that… Love, passion, urgency, yes… But there was nothing in him that screamed fear and flight to me. He wanted me, yes… But he wanted me to want him in return. He would not force himself on me. He loved me; I knew that then, perhaps for the first time, in truth… beyond his impish ways, and the games of the court. But he respected me too much to try and steal from me what he could not win. He was a different type of man from the beast that had sought to ruin me in the gardens of France.
Tom’s kiss was lingering and sudden. I found my hands reaching behind his head and running through his fine thick hair as he kissed me. His hands remained; one at my waist and one that ran through my hair under my hood. But his hands did not threaten to move elsewhere upon my body. As his mouth and beard stroked my lips, I felt a tingle of excitement leap through me and for a moment, I pressed closer to him, willing on the feeling of exhilaration and abandon which rose within me. But as I felt his body stiffen in response to my movement, and felt the pressure of his hands grow on my flesh, I released myself from him and stepped resolutely back from his arms. I could not continue the kiss, it was unfair. I was shaking a little, partly I think with desire, but partly also with some fear. My experience in France had made me wary, and caused me to fear such a close encounter with a man. Tom was breathing hard, too, and staring at me with a pleading look. He went to step forward, but I held up my hands before me.
“It is not possible, Tom… What you want from me can never be,” I shook my h
ead. “You are married, you have a son, and all I could be is your mistress… That is not enough for me.”
He sighed and sat down heavily on a bench. “What would you have me do Anna?” he asked wearily. “I am separated from my wife; she dallies with all kinds of men. I am a common man and cannot do more than leave her. I cannot divorce her, even if I had proof of her adultery, for her family have such a powerful hold over me. Few men can leave their wives at all. She was chosen for me by my family. I did not choose her, my heart did not choose her… My heart has chosen you!” He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair. “For God’s sake, Anna… I have never felt like this about any person before. I doubt if there are more than a few living who have ever felt this way about another person. I cannot think of anything but you. You are in my dreams as you are in my heart. I love you. It is torture to know that you do not feel the same way that I do.”