by G Lawrence
“I would have of you, Mistress Boleyn, some token to remind me of this visit. For amongst the halls of your house, Thomas,” he indicated to my father who bowed, “and the pleasures of your gardens, Elizabeth,” my mother bowed too, “I have found such delight that I would carry it with me on my journey. It is from you, Mistress Anne, that I would take a token of true friendship to solace me on the dusty road.”
There was applause from the crowd. It was a pretty piece of play-acting made to show favour to the Boleyns, but it had another, more secret, meaning for me; he was asking to carry a token of my acceptance of his position as my courtly suitor. It was a well-honoured tradition, and before all these people, I could hardly refuse. Nor did I want to refuse, even if it might cause problems for me later… I wanted him to be my courtly knight. I understood George’s warning, but I could not ignore the feelings within me. I made my choice. I took a ring from my finger and gave it to him. It was a large ring on my delicate hands, but would fit only on his smallest finger. The ring held my family’s crest in gold, over a tiny ruby.
I held it out to him with a shaking hand and as he took it from me I whispered very quietly to him. “You are my knight, Your Majesty.” His eyes shone with pleasure as he looked into mine. There, on his face, was that boyish look of happiness that I loved so. I smiled at him and then curtseyed again.
There was more applause and another cheer as the King kissed my cheek. He and his party then mounted their horses to ride off and join the court again. Mary stared at me a little as she saw me watching the King’s party. He had asked me for a favour, not her. I looked up at her with wary, worried eyes but she smiled a little sadly, but gently at me and squeezed my arm before walking in to the house, arm in arm with Will. It seemed that she did not mind her lover giving his attention to me, although she could little guess at all else that had passed between us in these short days. My father nodded curtly to me, happy enough that the King’s approval had been won, and left me to watch the last traces of the riding party as they galloped away from Hever.
As I watched him ride away I felt my heart sink, thinking that I should now not see him until I returned to the service of the Queen, the wife of the man I loved.
And I did love him. Yes, I loved him. I wanted him. I longed for him… but I knew myself to be separated from him by more than just the ties of his marriage. When I came back to court, when Henry’s progress was done for the summer, I wondered and feared on what was going to happen… Could a man like Henry be satisfied with but the trappings of love, or would he insist that I give up my honour and my body to him in order to keep my family in favour?
Chapter Thirty-One
Greenwich Palace
1525-1526
In the soft snows of winter, Mary gave birth to a fine boy. She named him Henry, for the King, and all, our father more than anyone, wondered whether or not the child was Henry’s son. It had become clear that the King’s passion, ever discreet at the best of times, had cooled for my sister; he had not sent for her for some time before the birth. Many put that down to the pregnancy, but even after she was churched and purified in the eyes of all Christendom, he still did not send for her. He paid her no special addresses and there were no extraordinary gifts at the birth of her second child… which, of course, was possibly was his son.
There was a look of some small regret in Mary over those days following her return to court, although she seemed to find ample consolation in her children. She would ride out to see as often as she could. The King, it seemed, was done with my sister, and was not going to acknowledge the child as his even though it was a boy.
Our father went around court with an expression like a dog left out in the rain.
My mother and I had returned to court and had wintered with the Queen’s household, enjoying the entertainments and pageants laid on for the court at Christmas and New Year. I was reunited with Margaret and Bridget once more. I found myself at the centre of attention, for I was chosen to play the lead role in all of the entertainments. Suddenly, it seemed, we were to have more dances and masques than we had ever had before. Tom and George were often writing for the King’s pleasure, and Henry would pick me to play the title roles above all the other women at court. George was excited, thinking that this showed the King’s favour for our family, but I saw him eyeing me with a speculative look that was more at home on our father’s face. I hid all I could from them. I hid my secrets from everyone, even my closest friends… although I trusted Margaret and Bridget I knew well enough how whispers grow at court. I did not want my family to know the secrets of my heart. I did not want my secrets to become tools for my father, or for George. Perhaps as the sister of the King’s mistress, I suggested, I was shown special favour. I do not think they were totally convinced, but I cared little. As long as they did not question me openly on the matter, then I did not have to lie.
Tom, too, seemed curious about Henry’s new interest in me. Since the affair with Percy, Tom had taken a step back from my company at court, perhaps licking wounds that I had inflicted on him. But now, with Percy gone from the court, perhaps for good, and Henry singling me out above all others, it was almost as though Tom sensed his interest in me… As though he smelt the arrival of another wolf on the fringes of the pack. Tom seemed drawn to me once more, like the honey-bee to the flower. I was cautious with him. I wanted little to hurt him again, and I knew that I had done, however unintentionally, before. Many of Tom’s poems were circulated at court that winter, and all were on the subject of a love that was strong within him, and yet was rejected by the object of his affection… I did not have to take many guesses to know that I was the object for which he yearned.
Unable, as I was, to deter Henry from pursuing me as a mistress, I could not help but feel pleasure when all the court’s eyes were on me as I danced and sang before them. I could not deny either the pleasure that came from having the King’s attention on me. I could feel admiration and jealousy emanating from the crowd, and at first, these sweet and sour tastes mingled wonderfully. I had ever been a fan of complex sauces. Every woman knows that it is pleasurable to feel a little envy from others at times.
In the nights in the great palaces of London, I wore light velvet gowns and silk slippers. I donned the elaborate costumes of the principal dancer in all the entertainments. I was the centre of the court and in those dark rooms, dancing in dappled candlelight, I became each and every character that George and Tom wrote for me.
I danced as Fortune, my feet tripping lightly around the wheel I carried that showed all men’s fates. I felt the heat of the open fires behind me as my blood warmed with every move of my slim body. I felt the beat of the drums rock through me and the sound of the pipes send shivers through my veins. I danced as Victory with her sword; the other women of the court prancing around me with flaming torches as my dark hair whirled in the smoke-ridden air. I felt the silk slide on my legs as I danced; flashes of bare flesh causing the men of the court to suck in their breath sharply. Trickles of giggles wanted to run through me as I saw their pained expressions. I felt power as I whirled in front of them; masked and dressed as images of a story.
I was not Anne Boleyn, the courtier’s daughter, when I danced. I was every desire they had ever imagined and more. I knew the power that I had when I was in those costumes, when I stepped to those dances. And I knew just as well that I had to be more careful than any other woman at court to not become caught by any of them, lest the balance of power should escape from my hands and into theirs. I danced with danger each night, and something in me found it thrilling. And all the time, every night, I felt the hot eyes of the King on me as I danced. I knew that he wanted me more than ever and although I did not want to be his whore, I wanted him to want me. To want me as I wanted him. Each dance, I danced for him. I danced so that he should not learn to forget me. I danced so that he would remember all that he had said to me. Although I could not have him, I wanted him to want no other than me. I did not want his gaze to f
all from mine. I did not want to be forgotten by the man I loved. I held him at bay, even as I wanted to beckon him closer.
George, Margaret, Tom and I would write together often. I found those sessions, writing with those talented poets, wonderful, and my head and my heart were active in the creation, criticism and praise of their work. They were kind about my offerings, although I was profoundly less talented than my brother or than Tom, who was becoming a consummate poet. I do not flatter myself when I say that many of Tom’s poems were written for me; he told me as much himself. Tom was still in love with me, and saw me as his torture and his muse. Some of the works were very fine, and when he read them at court, there was no doubt to anyone that he was talking of me. Margaret was sad when she heard such poetry, but assured me that she understood my feelings and principles. Although she was sorrowed to see her brother hurt by his love for me, she knew as I did that it could come to nothing.
That a great poet should be pursuing me as his mistress in the game of courtly love for the whole court to see was a heady experience. No less exhilarating than the King speaking of his desire for me. I was rather swept away by my own self in those early days of 1526. I exhilarated in the vain feelings that swept over me, and although that does little to recommend my character to anyone, I had never felt more desired, or more fragile than I did at that time. Although I had the love of my friends, I felt the dislike and jealousy that other women felt towards me as I walked the halls of court, just as I felt the desire of the men. Whilst this was enjoyable at first, eventually it left me feeling as though I might shatter if I were but touched; so brittle, so fragile had this person I had created, this centrepiece of the court, become. The Anne Boleyn of those days was as much a creation as were any of the personas as which she danced …
“You are a true beauty when you dance, Anna,” Tom said to me one evening as I returned to the rest of the court after changing my gown. I nodded to him and smiled.
“Thank you, Master Wyatt,” I smiled, “but I believe my sister Jane to be the greater beauty of those who danced this night.” Jane looked at me with a rather surprised smile, but I meant the compliment. Jane was far more of a beauty than was I, or perhaps even Mary.
“But when the lover’s heart looks on the one he admires,” said Tom, “there can be no comparison with others.”
“I know of none who could claim to be my lover, Tom,” I reprimanded.
“But you know of many who love you, and are bound to you, in spite of your disdain for their feelings.”
I sighed a little. “I disdain none, but nor would I admit to something I know to be untrue, Master Wyatt.”
“Perhaps one day, your heart will be reached beyond the coldness of the maiden pride that covers it,” he sipped at his wine, a bitter twist on his mouth.
“The man I would give my heart to would not view a maiden’s wish for honour with bitterness,” I said lightly, although feeling anger in my heart at him. “Nor see my offers of friendship to be cold comfort.”
“Then he is a more patient man than I.”
“Apparently so, Tom.”
I turned to Jane, who was listening to this exchange with slightly flushed cheeks, and asked her to walk with me to my chambers. At such times, I had to escape Tom. Much of the time, he could still be merry and well with me; at others, he was saturated with the sourness of rejection. But I had always been honest with him, and he kept coming back to me knowing that my heart was not his. I offered him my friendship, and accepted him as a courtly admirer, but he always wanted more of me. I was frustrated a little that winter as I thought on the offers that had been made to me by the men in my life. Was I never to be offered a place as a wife? Was I only ever looked on by the men at court as a potential mistress?
But such conversations, even ones as sour as the one I had with Tom, did not seem to put him off. I enjoyed his witty company when he was given to more light humour. I maintained that I wished to be his friend, and although he did not accept this, he did not shy from my companionship.
As Tom’s attention towards me became more public, the attentions of other men increased, too. I walked the halls with gallant and handsome men, such as Francis Bryan and Henry Norris, the new Groom of the Stool, at my side, jesting in the games of courtly love. I do not flatter myself that it was because I was the most attractive woman at court, for I was not; but I was unobtainable where other women of the court were not. Other women were granted as wives, and gave themselves up to be mistresses, but not I, and all knew it. Delay is always the most potent ingredient of desire. Some men, Tom included, called me cold and cruel, but what should I have done? Given myself to all who asked for me? For then they would call me a whore. A woman’s life at court must be carefully balanced between the thin lines of flirtation and respectability in the games of courtly love, but the truth is that she can never really win against the contradictions of the male heart. She will either be called a whore for accepting them, or a cold, cruel mistress for her refusal. I would rather be known as a cruel mistress than an idle play-thing, but either title was hardly complimentary. There is no way for a woman to ever truly win, you see? Unless she dons a habit, and shuts herself away in a hermit’s cave.
Tom wrote poetry, with his love for me as his muse,
But I see now that your high distain
Will nowise grant that I shall that attain
Yet ye must grant at the least
This my poor and small request
Rejoice not at my pain.
I did not rejoice at causing anyone pain, but I was not going to alter my own spirit and give in to Tom, nor to Henry either, for that way there lay pain only for myself. I had made up my mind long ago. I refused to whore myself even for a man I truly loved. I was determined. I was resolved. Henry was not a man who had much experience in being refused by maidens, but I had learnt my lessons well in seeing how my sister was treated in France… And, early that year, another lesson was granted to me by God, to teach me of the changing nature of men’s affections to the women they profess to love.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hampton Court
1526
In January of 1526, François of France had capitulated to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles of Spain and signed the Treaty of Milan. The treaty allowed François’ release, but it came with a heavy price. The French King was to give up his claims on Milan and Naples, and hand over the territories of Flanders and Artois, amongst other lands, to the Emperor Charles. François was also to take Eleanor, the Emperor’s sister, as his new queen. Worst of all, in exchange for the person of the King, the Emperor had demanded that François’ sons, the eight year-old Dauphin, and his seven year-old brother the Duc d’Orleans, be sent as hostages, exchanging their freedom for their father’s place in captivity. François had agreed to all the terms, and in March, on the River Bidassoa, his boat crossed paths with that of the one bringing his two eldest sons into the prison he had just left. François called out to them to take good care of each other, to eat well, and that he would see them soon. All those who witnessed the event said that the King was inconsolable as he watched his sons delivered to his own prison; tears flowed down his cheeks as he watched their boat sail away.
But when the French King returned to his court, it seemed that he was in a more joyous mood. Assured that his sons would be released soon, he sunk into relentless rounds of hunting, hawking and dancing as the French Court celebrated the return of their sovereign. And it was perhaps a month or so later that I received a message from my old friend Françoise, who had for many years been the official mistress of the French King. The note held little comfort.
Upon François’ return to France, it seemed that his sister Marguerite and his mother, Louise of Savoy, had decided he should have a new mistress; one who was perhaps more reserved than the fiery Françoise. The lady they put forward to entice François from Françoise was named Anna de Pisseleu d’Heilly, daughter of the Seigneur d’Heilly of Picardy. François was captivated
by Anna; she was bright, young, beautiful and charming… and he replaced Françoise with Anna. Françoise was in Normandy when she heard of her beloved’s return, and went to the French Court, only to find that the King’s heart had been taken from her. She abused Anna in public, calling her a “fuzzy chit.” At this, François banished his former mistress and beloved from court and wrote to her, telling her that he loved her no longer. François also called Françoise a “rabid beast” for abusing his new love in such a fashion. Anna asked the King to take back all of the jewels that he had given Françoise, because they were engraved with messages of his undying love to her. Françoise wrote to me that she had returned the jewels, but had had the items made of gold melted down into ingots before she sent them back.
“Since our love is destroyed, then so shall be the words he spoke to me in deceit,” Françoise wrote to me. In places on the letter, she had pressed so hard with her quill that I could see the rage of her heart imprinted on the page.
François sent the ingots back to Françoise, saying that he had wanted them for the inscriptions, not for the value of their worldly worth. “Give them all back to her…” he said. “She has shown more courage and generosity than I would have expected from a woman.”