The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn

by Robin Maxwell

  “Your family,” she said quiedy. All of the Dudleys — save Robin and his brother Ambrose — were now dead. She lifted one of the gilt-framed portraits, this one a distinguished but leaden-eyed man of forty.

  “My grandfather Edmund,” said Dudley, peering down over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Loyal servant and instrument of King Henry the Seventh.”

  My grandfather…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off as she remembered the stories she had heard about the first Tudor king, who had taken the throne of England by force. The first English king who had realized that money equaled power. And this man whose picture she held in her hand, Edmund Dudley, had been the King’s own instrument in attaining a great fortune.

  “I have heard,” Elizabeth began again, “that Edmund Dudley used, let us say, less than savory methods to enrich the crown.”

  “Extortion is a generally unsavory practice,” agreed Robin with a wry smile. “And he tended to enrich his own coffers quite substantially in the process.”

  “He was not very well liked?” asked the Queen somewhat rhetorically.

  “Despised is closer to the mark. He was in fact likened to a ‘ravening wolf.’”

  “Did you know him?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I did not have the chance.” Dudley bent and made the motion of dusting the tiny portraits with his finger, but Elizabeth could see the gesture covered a deep discomfiture in a man who was always comfortable.

  “Because my father had him executed,” offered Elizabeth.

  The slight slump of Dudley’s shoulders told her she had struck home. “One might think Henry would have been grateful. He’d inherited four million pounds on his father’s death, nearly all of which had my grandfather … procured for him.”

  “It was the beginning of my father’s reign. He wanted desperately to be loved by his people.” Elizabeth swallowed as she defended her father’s murderous behavior, feeling the tug of understanding for the dilemmas faced by a new monarch. “I think he must have yielded to popular pressure.”

  “But to call it treason …”

  “It wasn’t fair, Robin. But my father, you know, was not well known for his fairness.” Elizabeth reached past Edmund Dudley’s portrait and lifted another of the miniatures, this one’s frame studded with tiny pearls.

  “I think you look quite like your father.”

  “Another traitor to the crown,” Dudley intoned bitterly.

  Elizabeth stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “The Tudors and the Dudleys. We are so tightly bound each to the other. So tightly bound.”

  Now suddenly it was Elizabeth who was uncomfortable. She shook the thought from her mind — the thought that Kat had so insidiously planted there — that Robin Dudley, from a long line of treasonous scoundrels, had “bad blood” running in his veins. She turned and placed John Dudley’s miniature back in its place.

  “So, do you like my small family gallery?” Dudley asked, moving to Elizabeth’s side where he stood near without touching her. A strong silent current flowed between them.

  “I do,” she said. “But where is your mother?”

  “My mother was too modest to sit for her portrait,” he answered as Elizabeth moved toward the fireplace to warm her hands. Dudley stiffened. A letter lay open on the mantel and even now the Queen’s eyes were feasting on its private contents.

  “Dearest husband …she read aloud and turned to him blazing with challenge.

  “Do you in fact keep up a lively correspondence with Amy, so far from court, poor woman?”

  Dudley could see a storm of conflicting emotions scouring Elizabeth’s face. He wished desperately to answer in a way that would please her. “She attends to household business as good wives do and keeps me in fall intelligence,” he replied finally.

  “Business is it?” Elizabeth plucked up the letter and held it to the light of the fire to read, knowing it was a childishly wicked thing to do, knowing Robin cringed and sweated with every word.

  “… so I’ve made haste as you requested and sold the wool directly off the sheep’s back, tho at a small loss which could not be helped, so that you might discharge the debt you are so anxious to make good.”

  Elizabeth appeared relieved and not without contrition as she replaced the letter on the mantel. “Have you need of money? I will see to it that you have all you require.”

  “I don’t want your money. I want you, Elizabeth.” He reached for her but she moved away before his hands could grasp her.

  “Then you’re a fool, Robin. If I offer you titles, properties, gold, then you will take them and prosper. I am the Queen. I cannot, after all, be surrounded by paupers.”

  He could see the sweetness of the moment slipping inexorably away like fine sand in an hourglass.

  “Is she well, then? Amy, I mean?” The Queen’s face had grown hard and she touched a throbbing vein that showed purple through her parchment skin.

  “Why are you doing this, Elizabeth?”

  “Is she well?”

  “Not entirely. There is a growth in one of her breasts.”

  It was as if an invisible hand had slapped the Queen suddenly. All imperiousness vanished. She faced Robert Dudley and asked with the look of a guileless child, “Is it bad? I knew a woman once, Lady Windham, who died from such a malady. Died horribly.”

  “No, my love,” said Dudley, putting his arms around Elizabeth gently, “she is not dying,” and wondered silently if that was news to make them glad or unhappy.

  “Oh Robin, love, why is our lot in life so hard?”

  “You well know the answer. But the reason for our misery is, as well, the answer to our darkest troubles. It is because you wear the crown of England. You are entirely responsible and you are all-powerful. You may in all things do as you please. You can raise me or lower me. You can make me king or see me executed on Tower Green. I am your creature, Elizabeth, and my fate lies wholly within your hands.”

  Dudley released Elizabeth and turned away to hide his wounded eyes from her sight. For all his postures and strutting and confident intimacy with the most powerful woman in his world, he was deeply humbled by the truth of his own words.

  “I’m feeling suddenly tired, Robin. Will you forgive me if I do not stay?”

  “Forgive you, Majesty?” He laughed softly to himself and turning back to face her, swept into a low and graceful courtier’s bow. “If you sent me to hell for eternity I would forgive you, Elizabeth. But I will not let you leave me here tonight without a kiss.”

  She flew to him then like a moth sucked into the thrall of a great flame. As he crushed her within his arms the two, unsullied by the tortures of guilt or fear or pain, found a moment illuminated by the brilliance of purest desire and tenderest love. She was no longer queen nor he her creature.

  1 June 1527

  Diary,

  A most happy day this, for Henrys taken steps which in their final denouement allow for us to marry. Most cleverly conceived, this plan has Cardinal Wolsey calling Henry as defendant into ecclesiastic court to prove legality of his bond in marriage to Katherine. Is the logic not quite clear? Let me explain as Henry did for me on this evenings visit.

  Firstly, Wolsey knew the King desired a legal severance from the Queen, tho he’d been less than forthright with the Cardinal who still believed the object of a further marriage was not me but the French Princess Renee. So Wolsey, papal legate that he is (that is to say he acts with independent rule from Rome, to oversee the moral virtues of the souls in England) convened today at York a secret court comprising wise, respected churchmen to decide the royal fate. Of course these learned men are cleverly pick’d, among them William Warham Archbishop of Canterbury, whose opinion years ago upon the papal dispensation granting Henry leave to marry Arthur’s widow, did then dispute its true legality. Henry says that shortly Wolsey will give sentence of divorce after which the Pope in Rome will confirm this wise decision.

  Most important tho, is this convention’s secrecy. For if Katherine knows o
f it she must sure petition both her nephew Emperor Charles and, too, the Pope himself. But all was handled quietly, said Henry, all participants, boats and barges come to Wolsey’s landing stage, the prelates retiring to a castle room with neither pomp nor circumstance.

  The Pope knows Henry as his friend and champion from early days when the English Prince did most heated battle against Luther. (A small digression … I have never spoke to Henry of my love for Protestant ideas. I do not think it prudent now. It does not serve our present cause. But one day when we are man and wife and bound by ties of children and love and time I’ll speak my mind …) In deed, Henry loves the Pope and may be the staunchest Catholic King in Christendom. And tho this plan is clever wrought and will result in worldly benefit, Henry (quoting always Leviticus) does believe most truly in its Godly course.

  Wolsey, for his part in this ecclesiastic court, is held in high regard with gratitude by Henry since instead of looking like a man who wants to shed a wife, the King defends the accusation by the court that he and Katherine broke the Church’s law and lived in sin. When the papal bull allowing their cohabitation as husband and wife is brought forth to justify his actions, the Cardinal and his men will rush to show its innocent but grievous wrong and then a quick annulment will result.

  Henry, on this night, tho tired was flushed with joy, and feeling hope that this timely legislation will prevail and make us two as one. I pray with all my heart that this is so and I can give the King his son.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  21 June 1527

  Diary,

  Hope has turned to horror, joy to grief. For madness rules in Rome. German and some Spanish mercenary soldiers of the Imperial army, tho mutinied against the Emperor, have sacked the sacred city in a bloody massacre. Maiming, murdering, looting all the churches’ treasuries. Marauding door to door. Priests, Cardinals, tortured, killed. Nuns raped, beheaded. Atrocities beyond imagining. Despoiling relics of the Saints, smashing holy altars. The Vatican made a bloody stable. Pope Clement now hides from harm cross the Tiber in the Fortress of St. Angelo.

  And there’s the rub. Whilst I mourn for the humanity, still my selfish thoughts prevail. For Wolsey’s court and ruling on King Henry’s marriage does require confirmation from the Holy Father for its true legality. But now himself a prisoner of the Emperor, he dares not further anger Katherine’s kin with such a dispensation that would make her marriage mockery — change a Queen to royal whore, a Princess to a well dressed bastard.

  So whilst refusing to admit his failure, Wolsey did adjourn the secret court (secret to no one — Katherine knew of it in hours), then set out all in grand measure, as he is wont, to France where there he hopes to make a pact with France for war with Spain, and aid the Pope, free him if he can. But I suspect, like Henry does, that Wolsey hopes to fail and then achieve instead the Papacy for himself.

  I watched by Henry’s side as Wolsey’s great procession, scores of men in black velvet, church accoutrements, Great Seal of England left the gates of Westminster. He told me then, “The Cardinal promised me to soon revive my secret matter when the peace is made. Do you think he failed me, Anne?”

  I answered, “He’s ambitious for himself, remember that. You and I truly stand alone against the world. Whilst Wolsey’s indisposed in France we must proceed most independently.”

  He took my hand, held it to his beating heart. “I must face Katherine. Break with her, no longer live as man and wife.”

  “Yes, you must,” I said and moved his hand to my own breast. He flushed, kissed me hotly. “Go tomorrow,” I whispered in his ear. And so he shall and bear the news of their marriage ending, as I steel myself from all compassion of her, or have no way to live with my self.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  6 August 1527

  Diary,

  I am back at Hever Castle for the summer months whilst the King hunts with all his men in progress thro the countryside. When Brother George took leave of that manly gathering to visit me I learned that I was sore mistaken thinking I and Henry were alone in wishing for our marriage to be done. You see, my family — father, uncle Duke of Norfolk, brother — stay close by his Majesty’s side, plotting, scheming, putting forward plans on my behalf (and so on theirs). In deed, their fortunes as the future kin of the King are rising fast. Henry’s given them extra lands, titles and more close congress with himself. Like a family of spiders they weave a web round the King, its strong gossamer threads drawing him closer, catching prey to feed his appetites. I do not like this family business, but for now have no choice in it. Tho I rule Henry’s heart, men still rule the world.

  George brings with him much news of Wolsey, still in France. The pork bellied pig in a red hat — George calls him that — was trying for his own advantage, to devise a papal government in exile, in the city Avignon. As self appointed saviour of the Church he would of course take the part of Pope whilst Clements captive still. That plan required Henry’s leave; but the King sent instead a bull directly to the Pope asking him to grant Henry his permission then for nothing less than bigamy. This letter Wolsey intercepted. George says Wolsey knows now that I’m the object of the King’s desire to wed, not his French Re-nee. He is furious but more than that he’s terrified. Terrified and helpless.

  George saw the letter Cardinal Wolsey wrote the King. It begged Henry to withdraw the document, protesting that he wished nothing more from life than bringing to a happy close Henry’s “secret matter,” signed “with the rude and shaking hand of your most humble servant and chaplain, T Carlis Ebor.” T Carlis Ebor in deed. Fat fool. I hope he chokes on his syrupy words.

  Then George showed me a velvet pouch and pulled from it a rolled document, closed with Henry’s scarlet sealing wax. ‘Twas a second missive to the hostage Holy Father, he said, to be carried to St. Angelo by our very trusted rector of the Church in Hever, John Barlow. George said we could not open it, but I desired to see the contents of this document which made a case for Henry’s marriage to my self. I coaxed and threatened George and on the night before the letter found its way to Barlow’s hands, my brother and I crept down the castle stairs into the dark kitchen now deserted but for scurrying rats. We boiled a pot of water and most carefully did steam the letter open and by flickering candlelight read the plan concocted by the King and those who wish to see me Queen.

  It did not mention me by name, that’s so, but its intent was clear: let the Pope allow Henry’s marriage to a woman who might be related in the first degree of affinity. This, George said squinting at the dispensation, referred to Henry’s intimacy with our own Sister Mary. Was this wise, I asked George, since Henrys own link to his brother Arthur was the very case for his own marriage’s dissolvement? George would not say that it was wise or not, just pressed me hard to quickly finish reading.

  There next was brought to issue Henry’s right to marry a woman who might earlier have been contracted in the state of matrimony to another man (though without its consummation). This was clearly meant for mine and Henry Percy’s sake. This clause I felt was wise, for there were those who’d surely use that young contract of love against a royal marriage. I forced my heart then not to quail in thinking of my sweet Percy and our sundered fate. It was in the past, and only the future now remains.

  We read the final issue in the tract. I neither knew to cry or laugh and George was simply shocked. It would allow the King to marry someone whom he’d swived!

  “This last clause is quite unnecessary,” I quipped and started sealing up the document. George looked at me with wicked questions in his eyes. “Listen closely, Brother. I am not the King’s lover nor will ever be if not the Queen. I’ll not lay down without the Crown upon my head and that’s a fact.”

  “And here I thought the iron spine within this family in our Father’s back,” he said. Then with candle in hand he led me up my spiral stair to bed. “You do amaze me, sweet Sister.”

  And truly Diary, I do amaze my self someti
mes.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  22 November 1527

  Diary,

  O‘twas a day of sweet revenge! Two weeks have passed since Court has moved to Richmond Palace and I, the only object of the King’s desire, moved with it. There he’s doted on my self keeping me close at his side as tho I am some necessary appendage. He speaks freely to his councillors with me there, tho as of yet he does not seek my counsel on the issues of state, but only on the matters of divorce, remarriage and succession to the throne.

  News of Wolsey on his foreign mission’d come to us and it was clear his labors there had been for naught. No Papal seat at Avignon had been arranged, nor peace, nor help for this divorce. Wolsey’d learned of our missive to the Pope and no doubt felt betrayed. Worried, too, that my Father whispered in King Henry’s ear a most malicious suit against him self, the Cardinal hurried back from France. He’d come home weak and empty handed and when directly he did ride from Dover straight to Richmond Palace, sent his messenger to Henry asking whether and when the King would soon receive him.

  I was standing there with Henry when the Cardinal’s man came asking for direction, knowing well the King should see him privately as ‘twas always done. Before he’d finished speaking, my mind flew to past betrayals, remembering the Cardinal’s most heartless choice of action in the case of Percy and my self. How he’d called me that “foolish girl yonder in the court.” Now ‘twas he the foolish one, and so I spoke before the King could do and answered with a question to the messenger, in a high and stately air, “Where else should the Cardinal come but here, where the King is?”

  The man stood and stared at my audacity to answer for the King, then looked at Henry for more proper a reply. But Henry must have thought my answer clever or was him self annoyed of T Carlis Ebor and spoke, “As the Lady says.” With these words the messenger went pale, no doubt perceiving his next chore — to pass the message on to Wolsey. Wrath upon wrath is heaped upon the messenger who brings bad news, ‘tis said. So sickened at the thought, he turned and left.