The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn

by Robin Maxwell

  In the following year all that was left was for Mary to die. In the end it was her very womanhood that slew the Queen, her female organs rotting inside her. A self-interested Philip had done his part, convincing Mary in her last excruciating days to name Elizabeth her successor. So when the royal messengers rode into Hatfield with the long awaited news, Elizabeth had been more than ready for her queenship. Ready and eager.

  My poor mother, thought Elizabeth. Hardly a soul willingly bared his head in her honor at her spring coronation. On Elizabeth’s own day, in the dead of winter, thousands of caps had been doffed and thrown high in the icy blue air. The people had enveloped her in love that glorious day. The spectacle had surpassed even Elizabeth’s imagination. Streets thronged with celebrants. A thousand horsemen in proud procession, her gold brocaded litter, beloved Robin riding his white stallion behind her, great cries, prayers and good wishes, tender words that came in wave after comforting wave. It had been a time of purest joy.

  “God save Your Grace!” they had cried.

  “And God save you all!” she had called back to them, her heart bursting. At every stopping point along the procession’s way there had been a small pageant, a recitation spoken, a song sung. And at each Elizabeth had listened carefully and joined in with the celebrants so that by the time she had moved on to the next, she had given each of her subjects a tiny piece of her heart. The promise she had made to a wildly cheering crowd of Londoners at Cheapside, that she would be good to them as ever a queen was to her people, had thrilled her no less than it had her listeners, because Elizabeth saw clearly that it was to her people and her people alone she owed her ascendancy. Without their love, she felt sure, Mary might have been so bold as to see her executed for heresy. Without their love she would never have felt the crown of England on her head.

  Elizabeth’s eyelids finally felt the weight of sleep pulling them closed.

  That love was what my mother lacked, thought Elizabeth just before sleep took her. Anne was simply misunderstood. Misunderstood to death.

  4 June 1533

  Diary,

  This summer is the sweetest of my life. The long days at Windsor are warm, the air fragrant with cut grass and roses. Henry chose to make no hunting progress this season so he might stay close by my side, tho he rides out often of a day to shoot or hawk, but then returns by nightfall bringing me natural tokens of his affection — bunches of my favorite violets, baskets of juicy blackberries, an owl’s feather, a loveknot of plaited grass woven thro with pussy willows and wilted lilies. The King is most proud of my good belly, and I daresay a woman could be held in no higher esteem than I am by him.

  I’ve been given from Katherine’s wardrobe a great quantity of jewels, silver cups with covers, pots, beds and stools. Thro the men of my own Privy Council I may now collect revenues from my many rich estates. And Henry has honored me further as a femme sole which allows for me conducting my business without his interference.

  Happily we have heard grumblings from neither Rome nor the Emperor Charles. They must comprehend that one tangles with Henry at ones own peril. Francis remains our friend and sent a delightful wedding gift — four mules and a fine litter in the Italian style, all richly carved and gilt, hung with antique tapestries and lined with royal purple velvet cushions filled with eider down. The accompanying letter said he hoped that his gift was worthy of so beautiful a Queen.

  My apartments are day and evening scene of every kind of merrymake. Music, dancing, gaming and masques. I have a new fool — a woman, of all things! She does make us laugh with her pranks and clever observations. There are many romances amongst my pretty maids and their gentlemen with their small intrigues and giggling plots. In all I keep a virtuous and peaceful household. All quarrels proscribed, I’ve forbidden my servants frequenting infamous places or keeping lewd company. My ladies, never pampered or allowed licentious liberties, are kept from idleness, sewing for the poor and daily attending divine service. Methinks sometimes I’ve grown overserious, but now with Henry named Supreme Head of Church and State this Queen must set a most Christian example. And, too, God does bless true believers with male children, so I shall conduct my self most morally and obey his laws.

  One young courtier does move my heart. He is Mark Smeaton, a fine musician and singer. He is handsome with an honesty and grace that brings my mind to young Percy as he was when I first loved him. Mark pays me far more homage than is due even a sovereign, and it feels to me like a courtly form of love. He sits at my knee, plucks the lute and sings romantic ballads sweet as God’s angel. I should not encourage him, but his devotion does so touch my heart that I often call for his presence in my smallest gatherings. Even Henry loves Master Smeaton, shows him favor as a father might a son.

  I am in fine health with high color in my usually sallow cheeks. The boy turns and kicks most heartily, and none dare talk of miscarriage or stillborn babes. But to be truthful, I’ve had some fear of my own death in childbirth, and so sent a message to the Nun of Kent inquiring of her intelligence once again. In her prophesy that told of my Tudor son and his long and prosperous reign she never spoke of me or my life. And so I would call upon her to see again with those terrible eyes my fate as well. For if I were to die, there are some plans I might have in that event arranged, and certain letters writ. But the good sister, so it seems by correspondence from her Abbess, stays in strict seclusion seeing no one, all worldly matters deferred to spiritual ones. Thus my fate will only be revealed in its slow and timely fashion, and I will live with my impatience.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  12 July 1533

  Diary,

  Finally word from Rome has come and it is very bad. Two days past when Henry rode out to hunt I felt uneasy. Once gone I worried he might be in danger and my fears prophetic. I swear that since this pregnancy I have another sense past sight and hearing, a kind of knowing without reason. So Henry rode out and when night fell he did not return, but neither did I feel him ill or injured. As I was being put to bed the Earl of Shrewsbury arrived to say that having ridden farther than expected, his Majesty would stay the night at Buckdon Lodge, hunt another day, returning after that. A cold thrill ran thro me and I asked the man if the King was well, and if his hunt had been successful. The King was very well in deed, replied Shrewsbury, and as for his accomplishments, the stags had been elusive and he had as yet caught nothing. I slept, tho not soundly and passed the following day in a strange state.

  That night the King returned with several men in a loud and jolly humor. But when he came to my apartments and with smiles and great embraces asked after me and our son, I felt unspoken pain, illness of ease. I pressed him once and he claimed that he was only tired from the distance ridden. But I bade him sit, put my hands to his temples to stroke his brow and pressed him again, but carefully. He let out one long sigh which collapsed his large body into a sagging mass. He made to speak but no words came. His great ringed hand covered his eyes and with a dull voice he spoke my name.

  “Anne … I have not been hunting.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “At Guildford with the men of my Privy Council. I did not wish to worry you, sweetheart, but truth is we have heard from Clement on the matter of my divorce.”

  “He will not grant it?”

  “Worse. He has annulled our marriage and declared all issue from your body illegitimate. If I do not separate at once from you and reinstate Katherine by September … I am excommunicated. Archbishop Cranmer too.” Another sigh escaped him and he seemed suddenly small.

  I knew that I should make my self smaller still, so I knelt at Henry’s feet. When I spoke, the words echoed in my head as tho it were a hollow shell.

  “Were we not expecting as much, Henry?”

  “We were, of course we were. But knowing a great storm is on its way does not blunt the damage it does when finally it arrives. Fields and crops are still flooded, trees still uprooted, beaches washed away, people left dead.” H
e shook his head, a confused man. “I was not expecting to feel so … empty. The Catholic Church has been mother to me for all my life. I have been a most faithful son, and it has given me great succor.”

  With this I could not argue, and I knew it unwise to speak harshly of a man’s mother to him, even if he had spoken harshly first, so I said nothing.

  “Now the ungrateful son will cut off his mother’s head and replace it with his own.” He looked at me with desperate eyes. “She left me no choice, Anne, she left me no choice!”

  I gently took his hands. “Listen to me. Some mothers refuse to let their sons grow to manhood and assume their Godgiven rights. And Henry, as King of England you have ancient and sovereign rights. If she will not let you take them freely, you must take them by force. For the good of England!”

  He was nodding silently, in uncomfortable agreement.

  “Is there nothing can be done?” I asked.

  “My canon scholars suggest going over Clements head, appealing to a general council. But this would just delay the judgement.”

  “Could not Francis help you? He has the Pope’s ear. And what does Secretary Cromwell say?”

  Henry laughed coldly. “He says the same as you do about my rights as King coming first before the will of the Church. But sometimes I wonder at the man. I think he has no fear of God in him.”

  “I think Master Cromwell fears God as we all do, Henry. He simply does not fear the Church. And in this I believe he is wise.”

  Henry smiled a strange smile and touched my cheek gently. “My Lutheran wife. She has stolen me from my mother, lured me away with many promises greater than are in Heaven.”

  My body shivered when he said that, for I’d always believed ‘twas I who was stolen. But I kept my counsel and did not contradict him, for I knew I had made a promise whose fulfillment was worth the loss of the Mother Church. Our son. His little Prince. And the unbroken succession of great Tudor Kings.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  5 August 1533

  Diary,

  I am betrayed most foul, and my betrayer is Henry. So unexpected, this miserable deed, for my husband had been so kind and recently sent to my apartments in Greenwich where I would soon hie for my lying in, a splendid bed of state, picked for me by him from his treasure house, all hung with crimson satin, fringed with gold. And on behalf of me, to Katherine’s great annoyance, he asked from her that some linen be surrendered to me — one very rich triumphal cloth from Spain which had swaddled all the royal babes in their baptism.

  But on Wednesday last, whispered gossip found my ear of Henrys escapades with Elizabeth Carew, my own waiting lady, a girl of great beauty but little mind. Evil intentioned lies, I thought, and cleverly timed with me ponderously heavy and wretched, my usual razor tongue filed smooth by approaching maternity. It seemed not possible, for Henry had possessed my self, body and soul, for not yet one year. One short year after so many, fighting side by side like soldiers in a great crusade.

  But when at Sunday mass thro muffled bells and rustling taffeta, I chanced to hear it whispered how many nobles — my enemies by name — were assisting that affair, it dawned suddenly as truth to me. I knew it meant nothing to my high position, for I am secure, the crown firm upon my head. His was conduct neither wrong nor even remarkable by royal standards. But still the thought of Henry’s passion spent on someone not my self withered the new and fragile love I bore for him. All those years, pain, struggle squandered in the arms of some artless girl.

  I strode to Henry’s chambers, strode as well as one grotesquely bloated, face and belly, can and flew at him in reckless rage. “You whoring swine!” was what I cried when I slapped his cheek which came up hot and angry red. He was stunned, my faithless lover, husband, King. He looked at me with deadly calm, but his eyes told the truth of ugly rumors, and my own eyes stung then with acid tears.

  “Where is the sweet and tender man who promised everlasting adoration, he who signed his letters ‘Henry seeks no other’?!” I made much of turning this way and that as if to search for such a man. “Where is he then, for I see only a beastly, two faced traitor here!”

  Henry’s gaze, returned with such contempt, surprised my self, for I expected some measure of guilty remorse. Instead he fixed me with a steady stare and icy cold reply. “You will shut your eyes, sweetheart, and endure as those better than your self have done. You ought to know that I can at any time lower you as much as I have raised you.” He touched his reddened cheek, then put his giant hand around my throat. Gently, dangerously he held it so. I scarcely breathed. “Queen Anne,” he whispered I thought contemptuously, and dropped his hand. “Go.”

  I stood my stubborn ground and met his eye. “I’ll go, Henry, but know that you have grievously offended your faithful wife, mother of your son.” I turned and proudly quit his chambers for my own where I have nursed my private grief. For there is no one save you, Diary, who knows the fathomed depth of this betrayal. I am quite alone.

  We have not spoke now for several days, I to Henry, or he to me. The child kicks hard against my belly and in this pain I find solace, for if the Kings love is gone, this tiny child beneath my heart will remain a golden cord between His Majesty and me — shining, unbreakable and forever.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  29 August 1533

  Diary,

  It has been a glorious day! All drums and happy trumpets, banners flapping in a gentle August breeze, I took my place upon the royal barge. Henry, good cheer and kisses (all arguments forgot) was there to see me off. His embrace was warm and strong. He whispered in my ear, “I love you, Nan. We are one in this boy,” and placed his hand, a blessing upon my belly. Several “hurrahs” and he was gone.

  The moment was mine alone, more lovely somehow than my Coronation, trees swaying on the banks, the River Thames all green and rippling gold. The flooding tide lifted us and bore us down the winding course toward Greenwich, now all lined with common folk. They waved but did not smile. I wished they would have smiled at me, their Queen, her belly bulging with their Tudor heir. But most are loyal still to Katherine and her girl. They will change when he is born, I’m sure and love me then, cry aloud for Queen Anne’s long life and happy health. Greenwich Castle’s brickwork wall and battlements were glowing red in sunset light when we arrived. Many Lords and Ladies waited on the shore in all their finery, come to help me take my chamber. This ceremonial had been prescribed many years before by Henrys father, first Tudor King. Mayhaps since that Crown was won through battle, not bloodline, he had wanted a ritual made of his children’s birthing.

  The great river of all History, thought I then, ran beneath this royal barge and Henry, I, our child like tiny streams, had emptied into this and evermore were part of it.

  With quiet pomp and muted revelry was I conducted to the chapel where my good friend Cranmer waited. I took Communion and these nobles did pray with him as he asked aloud that God send me a great hour. As we left I saw the Princess Mary, thin and stiff, her dark eyes following my progression. I smiled kindly at her as I went by, for I felt full enough of love to offer her some, but I could see she took the gesture as a taunt. Never mind, I thought, she wishes me and my child dead.

  The gathered Lords and Ladies then escorted me to my Chamber of Presence, served me spice and wine and toasted to me heartily. My brother George was one amongst the men, bursting with much pride and happiness for me. I took his hand and whispered, “Loyal brother, think you that this will turn the tide with them and me?”

  “I do,” said he. “When you are mother to the one day King it will be as if a veil were torn from all their eyes, and they will finally see the sweet woman who is my sister.”

  I almost cried, such was the wave of grateful love I bore for George. But then before the tears began to flow, he and my uncle Lord Rochford each took a hand and led me to the door of my lying in chambers, bade me good luck and left me there. All gentlemen retired and my ladies follow
ed me in and closed the door behind. As law prescribes from now till after birth I cannot leave these walls, and will see these cloistered women only.

  The privy place was dark and airless, heavy tapestries covering walls and roofs and windows, all save one. I saw the narrow pallet bed where birthing’s done, the extra braziers to heat the room, bottles of parfum to cover the sticky smell of blood, and shuddered at the pots and basins, piles of linen torn in rags, a great array of midwives knives and dangerous instruments.

  The other chamber was a far more cheerful place. My Bed of State was greatly carven and richly hung. I moved ahead in time and saw myself receiving high born visitors, a proud mother, sitting up amongst the fine lawn sheets in a mantle of deep crimson velvet furred with ermine. And when they’d paid respect to me, they’d view the little Prince asleep in his lavish Cradle of Estate, four pummels of silver and gilt, a cloth of gold and ermine lined counterpane.

  They say my labor soon begins. I pray with all my heart for bravery, to not cry out, to steel myself against the pain. For there are those who wait outside this chamber door who long to hear me shriek in agony, they hate me so. Please, God, make me strong in my great hour and make my child a fine and healthy son.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  8 September 1533

  Diary,

  I have a daughter and she is named Elizabeth. Her birth, terrible and bloody, the witchlike midwives murmuring musky spells between my outspread thighs, had been a dark dream. My prayers for a son, sung over and over like an unheard mass were lost amidst my cries and curses. The crimson curtains of my stately bed hung damp, no breeze ruffling the rank and steamy air when in strode Henry, all smiles, the smell of celebration ale upon his breath, come to see his little Prince. He did not see my ladies cowering, whispering in fearful tones as they hid their faces, lest he see them and later remember them as accomplices to this evening’s crime. He only heard the lusty cries of his heir long wished for.