“Anne.” She knew my name!
“Holy Sister,” then I said, “I have come to seek …” She turned, fixed her eyes on me. Those eyes, O Diary let me never see such eyes as those again! Molten gold, darting here and there. Terrible, terrible and mad. I saw the form beneath her novice robes, Elizabeth Barton, just a peasant girl, her skin still ruddy from sun. In fields, in muddy bogs her trances came, they said. She’d fall upon her knees and visions — Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, the souls who wandered there — were shown to her.
She spoke my name again, a childish voice both pure and sweet, she took my hands within her rough and callused grip. The bitten lips moved silently. A prayer? Divine words by God inspired? An answer to the Devil squatting on her narrow shoulder? I must have stiffened, for she said, “Be not alarmed, good lady, your destiny is set. Your life is here before my eyes. Wish you that I tell the seeing?”
“Yes, yes!” I cried. I wished to hear, yet something in me wished to go before the fateful words were spoke.
She closed her troubled eyes, lips drained of color, twitched, then uttered, “Ahhhyeee …” ‘Twas not a word, ‘twas more a breath, a lingering sigh. “I hold the hands… of a Queen.”
My knees went watery but I held and stood against the tide. “Tell me more.”
“Oh yes, there is more. A Tudor son shall rise up from your belly there to shine as England’s brightest star, and will not set for two score years and four.”
“A Tudor son!” I cried. “A son for Henry. Are you sure?”
The girl’s eyes opened wide — a yellow stare — she could not see me, that was clear.
“I am tired,” she moaned. I helped her to a comfortless chair. She was blind, pitiful, trapped still ‘tween two worlds. “Go,” said she. “Be the Queen. Be the Queen.”
And so I went and travelled home, no words to share with my good brother. Too afraid to speak the prophesy. But now here within my grey stone room I find I’m ready to believe it true. The Nun of Kent did know my name and with no questions asked, could tell my life to me. My fate is done. Tomorrow I will write to Henry, tell the King the words he longs to hear. I’ll be his wife, Queen Anne, and have his son.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
25 April 1527
Diary,
I have writ assent to marry Henry in a letter and have sent therewith a jewelled brooch to seal that new agreement. ‘Tis a picture of a lady in a stormtossed sea. This lady I perceive as me, who knows the perils of such a promise ‘twixt our selves, and still braves that violent sea in some flimsy ship named Love.
Love. I declared that state to him in my letter. I vowed a love as rare as his, but this was a lie. Tho I could never wish to have suitor more devoted or more passionate, and tho the gift he makes to me — to be the Queen — is more than I have ever dreamt, in my deep heart the place where truest feelings rest… I do not love him. My fervent hope, my prayer to God is that the day will come my heart will open like a rose in spring does open to the sun.
Till then, altho I’ve promised him my self, I still refrained from any pledge of us bedding ere a marriage binds us legally, that tho I most desired him, my virtue would forbid such tender congress. In this matter I spoke half truly. I should desire him. My future husband is a handsome man to any lady’s eye — broad shouldered, solid chest and well muscled legs. A good jaw and healthy cheeks. He is fair, golden reddish hair, curly and yet abundant. Fine blue eyes that have a sparkle to them. But best of all, his mouth. Lips full and supple, teeth strong and white, breath sweet. I do enjoy the way he kisses me with that mouth — hard, insistent, soft then playful, and the way he smiles and laughs with it. I think that when he does, he is most beautiful of all men that I have known.
I asked my Sister Mary of Henry’s prowess as a lover, but she keeps her counsel. So unlike her this closed mouth, so I poke and wheedle, coax and make her giggle but to no avail. She will only say that he’s prodigiously endowed. But that’s no news to me for I can feel the rod of hardness in our chaste embraces.
Does he love me truly? I believe he does. Will he make me Queen? I believe he will. O, Diary, I am grateful for this place to write in all confidence, for I have no friend whom I may trust with all these wild thoughts, outrageous events. You are my great secret and I shall guard you with my life.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
6 May 1527
Diary,
Having returned to Court I am held in such high estate as not before, this stemming from the King’s open love for me and his attentions paid regularly. Most believe I am his mistress in both body and in spirit. None, not even Wolsey, will believe the truth, that I keep us chaste and that when Henry’s will be done, I should be not concubine … but Queen.
But Queen or mistress, still my fortunes here amongst the highborn lords and ladies have grown substantially. They now come and seek my favor knowing how I have King Henry’s ear. They call me friend.
“O Mistress Anne, if you please, my brother’s son could use a good word in seeking a position in the Court.”
“Good Lady, how lovely you are looking today.” (He’ll kiss my hand, then.) “May I speak with you about a piece of woodland that is under siege by poachers and needs policing from the King?”
O how I enjoy the grovelling. They must think me very stupid, that I would not remember how not long ago these same grand folks held themselves far above me — I the daughter of a common tho ambitious man, sister to the King’s whore.
Yes, even Father’s paying homage in his way. Sending every day the jewellers, women to care for my hair, silk women to my rooms. Always miserly before, he makes very sure the King’s favorite lady looks the part. He tries to speak of how it is between the King and me, but I will not divulge how our liaison holds together. My Father dies to know. If I were the green girl I was before he’d box my ears, send me sprawling cross the floor, receive timely answers to all that he had asked. But I am no longer that child, and tho it gall him, still he holds me with a certain reverence, a fear. How very sweet this is.
Most strange to me is how Katherine, whose waiting lady still I am, regards me. She is neither deaf nor blind, must know my place in Henry’s heart, yet treats me kind as ever. As I tend her daily needs I watch her closely, realize that here lives the woman who in all the world loves best the man who loves me. She cannot know what he intends for her, cannot know. For even if she knew his depth of love for me, she would see me only as a mistress, nothing more. For Kings, by ancient custom, are allowed that pleasure. Sometimes I feel a pain for her and stand inside her mind. She loves the King as I loved Harry Percy, maybe more since I was just a girl and Henry’s been her beloved for many many years. I was made to watch, altho from far away, as Percy wed and bed another, as she must every day endure her husband’s infidelity.
I should not think too long on this nor on my vast disloyalty to my Queen, or I will loosen my resolve. I must stand with Henry in his firm belief that England’s greatest need is an heir, a boy, a son that I will give him, not his barren wife.
Too much of late I give myself to worrying. It seems that time goes by and naught is done regarding this divorce. I know the King is elsewhere occupied. The French envoy that’s here to make a treaty tween France and England (and war upon Charles the Emperor) is foremost on his mind. Each and every day he and Wolsey sit for hours scheming, making plans and then convene for meetings of diplomacy with Frankish ministers for argument and bargaining.
When Henry comes to me in evenings after these dealings, I see the strains that crease his brow and hear the weariness within his voice. If he and Francis do not join in force against the Emperor, this man will surely rule the world. Already German lands and Spain are his. Charles holds as hostage Francis’ two sons as he once held the King of France himself. Some evil trade — his freedom for his sons’ imprisonment.
What an irony. France and England, ancient enemies, now made to join their forces or face defeat. Little Princ
ess Mary is to be a pawn in these bargainings. She’ll be wed to one of these captive sons when he is freed, combine the might and majesty of two lands in matrimony.
I often wonder how these things will change when I am Queen, mother of Henry’s son. But for now I know the politicks must still proceed like all is well with King and Queen, else the chink within the armor will mean death to all the bargaining. I will keep my silence, trust that Henry’s word is good.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
20 May 1527
Diary,
Patience I own was never my foremost virtue and it has vexed me sore to see my fate taking second seat to French and English bargaining. But negotiations finally done, a banquet and a celebration in the French envoy’s honor then was planned, the likes of which had not been seen since the famous celebration — the Field of Cloth of Gold. I made my own plans, stood for hour upon hour in fittings for a gown that would outshine all others. I accosted my father for several jewelled necklaces, bargained with a parfumier for an essence said to work exotic spells.
In recent days I had befriended Maurice Mamoule, then secretary to the chief negotiator Vicomte de Turenne. He remembered me, a scrawny girl of twelve in Francis’ Court and was delighted now to see how I’d risen in my influence, tho he believed as all believed that I was Henry’s whore. This did not lower me in his eyes, coming as he did from so debauched a Court, rather raised me high in his regard. He’d kept me well informed of all the goings on, and in the few days before the banquet, said official rumor in his circles held that Henry might discard his wife. I bade him tell me more. The French envoy believed, as Wolsey hoped (for Wolsey championed France) that Henry’s choice would be my French childhood playmate Renee, a Princess born and raised. My heart leapt. For word was out that Henry meant to rid himself of Katherine. And this French princess meant nothing to the King. She was unnaturally short and limped from a deformity. Henry, I knew, would never tolerate so imperfect a mother for his many perfect sons.
So I dressed with joy for that celebration, all in shiny black and deep purple trimmed ermine, causing some stir amongst the other ladies with my gown and jewels and scent, whilst making way with them at Katherine’s side to the feast. What a day and night we had. Henry was magnificent in slashed yellow silk and diamonds, far too large for life, voice booming welcome to his guests, smile telling all of his French success.
The tiltyard was more grand than I had ever seen. Very long and hung with gaudy tapestries of purple fruit and flowers, cabinets filled with gold and silver plates and goblets as if to say, Look, here is our wealth, you are well to throw your lot in with us. First there was the jousting, very fierce and spirited, infused with dreams of future wars it seemed to me. Then several masques, one in which the Princess Mary played a central part.
She looked frail, younger than her eleven years inside her gilded garments, the thrall of rubies, emeralds, pearls. Her small voice faltered not at all, she spoke her lines with utmost dignity, so unaware her usefulness as royal pawn was coming to an end. At the banquet King and Queen presided grandly side by side. I watched and saw the love that flowed a river from Katherine’s source to Henrys raging sea, but never did one drop of that oceans love return to her. His eyes followed me. I was careful, taking my attentions elsewhere from the King. But each and every time I chanced to look his way, there were his eyes trained upon my self. Others saw him watching me. Katherine pretended not to see.
Just past midnight all the Lords of France emerged, now dressed as Venetian noblemen in royal blue and black velvet. The music filled the fragrant moonlit garden and the dancing was begun. First dance Henry bade Vicomte de Turenne to pair with Princess Mary. She bowed most gracefully and took the floor with him. Her mother glowed with warm Spanish pride. You could see her then expecting Henry to take her own hand. But in a trice her smile turned bitter. For Henry’d made his way cross the floor to none other than my self, and then for all to see extended out his hand. As terrible for my Queen that moment was, was wonderful for me. I met his eyes, thanked him silently with all my heart and took his hand. He held firm and as we moved to center I could feel no trembling there, just strong resolve. We took up the music and leapt into the galliard — a perfect moment — he’d publick made his love for me.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
IN THE FLOOR-TO-CEILING LOOKING GLASS of the Queen’s bathing chamber, Elizabeth watched in reflection as two of her ladies dressed her gleaming hair, braiding the red-gold locks with strands and clusters of tiny black pearls.
“Open, Majesty,” ordered Lady Sidney, and Elizabeth obeyed, grimacing with lips pulled back like some growling beast so that her maid could clean the royal teeth with her enameled gold pick.
“Do you wish to be powdered this evening?” inquired Lady Bolton, holding out a pot of finely crushed eggshell and alum.
“I think not,” said Elizabeth, accepting from Lady Sidney a crystal cup filled with marjoram water. She rinsed her mouth and spat into a bowl. “I am still young and fresh-faced enough to go without, am I not?” the Queen demanded, knowing full well that her ladies would spring to praise her youth and beauty in a boisterous chorus pleasing to her ears.
Elizabeth stood, shook away the ladies fluttering about her, and strode into her bedchamber where Kat and several more waiting women had laid out on her sprawling bed of multicolored wood this evening’s attire. An array of fabulous jewels sat upon her silver-topped table and her favorite chair was strewn with a choice of delicate slippers. Throwing off her dressing gown, she stood quite still while the ladies carefully built the foundation of garments onto her, much as a manservant might build onto his master a suit of armor. First the stomacher was laced onto Elizabeth’s already thin frame, flattening her belly and breasts into a V-shaped board.
“Have I a new pair of silk stockings?” asked the Queen, and instantly Lady Springfield brought forth two fluttering thick ribbons of fine knitted silk.
“Does Your Majesty like this new Italian fashion?” asked her maid of honor as she stretched the hose up one and then the other of Elizabeth’s alabaster legs.
“I do love pretty things,” replied Elizabeth, wriggling to let Kat slip the heavy purple velvet overgown over her head and begin fastening the row of a hundred pearl buttons at her back. “But dressing is not a passion with me, so much as an act of state. The French envoy is come to ratify our peace treaty, but this is also the first occasion on which they will meet me as queen, and so my person must be as magnificent as the glory that is England.”
The Queen thought but did not say aloud that this week’s lavish entertainment also carried a deeper meaning. For not only had her mother Anne been raised and educated in the court of Francis the First, but the friendship of the French had been her mother’s great hope during the long struggle of her father’s divorce from Katherine of Spain. They could not forget that Elizabeth was the daughter of Anna de Boullans, renowned for her great beauty, gaiety, charm, and sophistication. While the English might despise the Great Whore, her mother in the French perception was a figure whose attributes were to be emulated and hopefully surpassed.
As the purple velvet sleeves heavily embroidered in silver and gold were laced to the overdress, Kat held out two jewel-encrusted watches for the Queen to choose between.
“The flower or the ship, Your Majesty?”
“Neither. I’ll have my father’s brooch.”
“As you wish.” Kat needed both hands to lift the giant sapphire stone ringed with diamonds and rose rubies. As she clasped it to the center of the quilted purple bodice, she whispered to the Queen, “Ask after your cousin Mary and her husband newly made king.”
“And what should I ask?” Elizabeth sounded mildly amused at Kat’s typical impertinence. “Whether she is enjoying married life with her childhood sweetheart and her overbearing mother-in-law de Medicis? Or whether she’s with child, a French prince who might one day lay claim to my throne?”
Kat wound strand upon strand of gleaming pearls round Elizabeth’s throat, wrists, and waist. “You make fun of your old companion,” sniffed Kat, “but that young Scots queen is your father’s own niece, and must needs be closely watched. Now that she is queen of France as well, she will be trouble for you, mark my words.”
“I always mark your words, Kat, but I think tonight is no time for such converse about my cousin Mary. Tonight is a time to celebrate a hard-won peace. Do you not agree?”
Kat looked away peevishly, but Elizabeth pulled the lined face to her with a finger under the chin and grinned, finally coaxing a smile out of the older woman.
“You look radiant, Majesty,” said Kat with a final and imperceptible adjustment to the Queen’s costume. “The night will belong to you.”
Elizabeth glided out of her bedroom into the paneled Great Chamber where, already on his knees in advance of her entrance, was Robert Dudley lowering his head in further obeisance. “Your Majesty.”
She stretched out her whalebone white hand to him, but so covered in great rings was it that he was only able to graze her fingertips with his lips. “Rise, Robin. Let me look at you,” she commanded.
Instantly Dudley came to his feet and rose like a great sturdy tower in front of her. Tall as the Queen was, she had to look up to her Master of the Horse.
He really does love me, Elizabeth thought to herself. What I see in his eyes is an emotion not easily feigned.
Indeed, Dudley was this evening utterly overwhelmed by the regal presence of his childhood friend. He could not tell if the effect was caused by her pale luminescent beauty, the riot of gold and sparkling gems that glittered in the sunset light, or the hypnotic perfume which she made to waft round herself with tiny flutters of an ostrich feather fan.
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 10