The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn

by Robin Maxwell

  As I fed him spiced wine before a blazing fire I found what courage I could, and was bold with him as I had been before love and marriage had weakened me. With my hands making soft work upon his temples I told him that if he thought honestly, he’d know that he was more bound to me than man can be to woman. That I had extricated him from a state of sin in his marriage to Katherine, and that without me he would never have reformed the Church. Moreover, in that reformation he had gained all the riches of the monasteries and was now the wealthiest Prince that ever was in England.

  He listened close, leaning on the words I spoke, even said “Go on” and so I did. I handed him my hair brush and as he was wont to do when we were young, he brushed my hair for me, long smooth strokes until my hair was as a single bolt of black silken cloth. I told him his virility had given us another chance for our Prince. And then like Master Holbein, I painted a portrait with Henry and my self as allies who stood together on the one side, whilst all the world was drawn as if the enemy; the treacherous Emperor, unfaithful French, belligerent Pope, treasonously stubborn Katherine and Mary who behind his back still try to raise a mutinous army. I said that he and I had been torn from each other by cruel forces and wicked men who could never comprehend the strength of our union. Then I kissed him, rousing both the King and the man within him. He needed no further urging, fairly ripping off my gown, carrying me to bed.

  I have known his body lately, so ‘twas no surprise that it was corpulent and foul with bulging veins and oozing sores upon his calves and thighs, but those times I had not pretended lust, but turned my face away and let him take his pleasure quickly. Now I summoned all my resolve, opened up my lying heart and made love with him. ‘Twas a test of my skill as actor for there is, with all honesty, no shred of real affection left for this beast I call my husband.

  Once satisfied the King was most ecstatic, hope welled within his breast for our future, his son, England’s glory. He spoke my name again with great love, and I rejoiced silently that by my own hand I had once more changed my fate and with my daughter in my arms, stepped back from that dark abyss which beckoned us to it. Jesus be praised. He is surely with us.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  20 July 1535

  Diary,

  How is it that so good and learned a man conspires in his own execution? What sense is there to stand so faithfully to one principle against one to which all others conform, that death is his only choice? Confound Thomas More! He is dead now, his head stuck upon a pole on London Bridge keeping company with the heads of John Fisher and those Carthusian Monks. Could he not have sworn the oath and saved his life? And Henry, ah well, he has made a Catholic martyr out of More, all the better for his subjects to rally now around.

  My Brother George and Father saw their executions. First Fisher, lately made Bishop of Rochester by the Pope, was so frail they say they were amazed that so much blood could pump from so skeletal a corpse. But ‘tis More’s execution which haunts my dreams and waking reveries. The long grey and tangled beard, his exhortations to the headsman not to miss his mark for his poor neck was short. Binding up his own eyes with linen ‘fore he laid his sick body flat upon the scaffold, as the block was low and very small. He even made a jest. Told his executioner not to cut his beard, for his beard was not a traitor. That great man, that silly fool lying on his belly waiting for the axe.

  When the news was brought of More’s execution, the King and I were side by side at his gaming table. His face flushed hot and red and he raged, “God’s blood! The honestest man in the Kingdom is dead!” Then he strode from the gaming room and closeted him self for several days.

  I swear I will think on this no longer. Push all terrible thoughts from my head, for I am still the Queen and have much high business to attend.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  10 August 1535

  Diary,

  This grese season Henry’s taken his round bellied Queen on summer progress with him and treats her most royally. I stand beside him on the hunting stage as in older days and we watch the deer run, shoot together, drink ale in the crisp afternoon and make more merry than we have in many years.

  In the counties Winchester and Hampshire we were shown good and gracious hospitality by our noble subjects in divers manors, castles, hunting lodges. And tho heavy rains robbed us of many good hawking days, no angry mobs of country folk marred our leisure travels. My hope is that this forecasts some new acceptance of their Queen and baby Princess, but my heart says ‘tis fear of Henry’s heavy hand and forced submission which makes the common people mild.

  Still, pleasures of another kind waited round several pastoral bends. The monasteries of Rochester and Dunst, with their treasure hoards of Roman artifacts, lay open for the King’s taking. Great heavy crosses made of gold, exquisite tapestries, gem encrusted miters, pillars, goblets for the mass, all obscenely rich and quite unnecessary for God’s worship, were carried off to London as plunder by the King’s men.

  Mayhaps these new riches have turned Henry’s head, for he now speaks openly against those great Spanish stones round his neck. “I will no longer remain in trouble, fear and suspense I have so long endured on account of the Dowager Queen and Lady Mary,” I heard him say to Suffolk. “You shall see, the coming Parliament will release me therefrom. I will wait no longer!”

  I restrained my tongue, for it sounded as tho the King needs no further persuasion toward their execution. Ah, ‘twould be a sweet day that those bitter harridans were gone from this world, and my Elizabeth safe from their disaffection. I pray that Henry bears resolves for this as great as was his to make me Queen. If so, our future is assured.

  Now lodged at Wolfe Hall in Wiltshire County near to Wales, we are made to feel mightily at home within the Seymour family manor. Thomas and his fertile wife Margaret inspire us with their fecundity, ten living children — five daughters, five sons. Edward has been Henry’s Master of the Body some years now, and his sister Jane — quite ordinary and meek — was Katherine’s maid of honor. Her brother spoke for her, too shy her self to ask from us a place within the Court. Henry made it plain that it would please him to please Edward, so I will see about a place amongst my ladies for this little mouse.

  In all honesty this summer progress pleases me, but ‘twill please me even more to hie for home and comforts of my Court. For this child must be fully carried, safely born.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  5 December 1535

  Diary,

  ‘Tis beyond all belief and understanding, Henry’s late be-trayment. He has made a mouse his mistress! My maid of honor Jane Seymour, prim little cunt, is my new replacement. No one thinks she has much beauty, just a plump and undistinguished figure with a voice which you must strain to hear, she speaks so softly. She has no brains to speak of either. But no matter, her brother Edward Seymour does the thinking for her. Henry is besotted in a way I’ve not seen before, save with his love for me. But how does this plain Jane inspire such a passionate affection from the King? ‘Tis Edward’s scheme I’m sure, this wretched love affair which will grow his place in Henry’s Court. I fear my fickle cousin Francis Bryan, also Nicholas Carew, conspire with him in this plot. Is there no such thing as a loyal courtier? I think not. They have Jane playing my old game of love — tempting Henry with deft teasing, simpering smiles, promises of full submission to the King that lead not to bed but only chaste kisses and promises of many sons.

  I admit I’ve lost all patience with the whore mongerer and cannot hide my loathing. Harsh vituperations fly from my mouth both in private conversation and whilst in public company. When he says “yea” I say “nay,” for any contradiction’s better now than none. I find new ways to irritate and make a fool of this pompous clod every day, laughing at his silly duckbill slippers, and outrageously bejangled costumes of ever widening girth that cause him to look the size of a wall. He’s commanded all his men to poll their heads and grow their beards and
so, making use of Niniane’s observation, my self announced loudly at dinner that the King was like a bearded billiard ball.

  I hurl abuse as well at Norfolk, long my enemy but now brazen with his appalling slander at my back. He’s said to have complained I’d spoken to him as one would not address a dog. But Niniane, upon hearing that, claimed my Uncle Norfolk should feel complimented, for I treated my dogs better than most people. To Mistress Seymour who boldly flirts with Henry, sitting on his lap, I gave a smart slap across the face and left a long red scratch.

  Henry tolerates my vexatiousness with a strange calm which troubles Brother George, who fears the quiet ‘fore the storm. But I am ruled by some hellbent demon whose unleashed frenzy cannot be staunched. What cruel God decided my fate shall be the judge of further punishment, for the gauntlet has been thrown down and now the battle has begun.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  9 January 1536

  Diary,

  Katherine, once Queen of England, is dead and I am laid low. So violent and unnatural was her end with fearsome vomiting and stabbing pains within her stomach, some say she died of poison. But this is not true, for her only enemies were the King and I, and we are surely not responsible. Henry is beside him self with glee and shouted out with hearing news of her death, “God be praised that we are free from all suspicion of war!” ‘Tis true, Katherine’s nephew Charles the Emperor will find no reason for invasion now, so long as his cousin Mary’s safe from harm, for who can say which way fate will take the throne’s succession?

  This, then, is why I’ve taken to my room, my bed, but even there find no solace. ‘Tis true I cried with happiness on hearing the report, even made a handsome gift to Master Ellis, the messenger who’d brought it. I rejoiced that Henry had Elizabeth carried here from Hatfield Hall to join the round of celebration mourning, had her dressed in yellow matching his doublet, and my gown, and that he’d come into the room where my ladies were dancing and joined in their wild gaviote, a man transported with joy. But when the King took our daughter in his arms and carried her about from room to room, parading her for all his men to hold and praise, I felt a sure and sudden sickness of the heart. I dismissed my ladies, and even Niniane could not assuage my grieving mind.

  For this is what I all at once knew. Katherine’s death may be the end of me. Whilst she lived Henry could never divorce me, for that would mean him going back to her. But with the Lady dead and gone the King is free to marry whom he will. You say the King would not divorce me. I say think again! I see the loving way he looks upon Jane Seymours bland and peevish face. I hear the frequent gossip of his third marriage, which he always fails to contradict.

  O Elizabeth, the man who shows off his golden haired and yellow bundle proudly to his courtiers may be the instrument of my destruction, and your own. Pray with me sweet girl in your child’s prayers that this babe inside of mes a boy. For good King Harry sees little to commend his family, and less intention to cherish them. Like a great storm blowing inland from the Western sea, I fear he is unstoppable and shall rage with marvellous fury till we all are drowned.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  28 January 1536

  Diary,

  That which I most feared has come to pass. I have miscarried of my saviour, for the small bloodied flesh expelled from my womb was clearly male.

  The great celebration of Katherine’s death had gone on for weeks. No mourning black in Court or public was allowed by Henry. Feasts, dancing, masques, even masses were sung in rejoicing, and those who loved the lady mourned in secret under pain of death. A joust was called but far from wishing noise and jostling crowds, I sought quiet privacy, and stayed to my apartments with Margaret Lee and Niniane who entertained us merrily with Chaucer’s verse and song.

  Then with sudden sounds like soldiers massing at my chamber door which quite alarmed us all, my Uncle Norfolk burst upon our quiet afternoon with evil news. The King lay in the tiltyard dead, thrown from his stallion in a joust and crushed by the mighty war horse fallen on his Majesty’s body! The sharp pain of fear pierced my limbs, head, belly and all strength ebbed from my veins. Margaret claimed I grew pale as death and she tried to comfort me. But Norfolk, like some malignant viper, struck at my fragile heart with harsh words. With Henry dead, he said, I was surely lost, for there was no one loyal to Elizabeth and her succession to the throne. If I fought for her, claimed my self Regent, great strife and civil war would sure be England’s lot. All this while I mourned the sudden loss of Henry, that loss tinged with unpleasant joy that the beast was dead. Then Norfolk left, not bothering to bow, as tho I was Queen no longer.

  Dazed, mortified, reeling with all terrible possibilities I began to tremble uncontrolled. Margaret and Niniane strove to warm me, stay these convulsions, comfort me with kind words, but all I knew was wanting Elizabeth in my arms, for danger danced all round us like some macabre troupe of shadow players. Margaret took her leave, promised she would have Elizabeth brought to me, as well as my few loyal men.

  But when they came — Wyatt, Norris, Weston — they brought news that the King lived! In deed, the man had been two hours in a dead faint, but now was back upon his horse with threats to ride again. Well, I took to my bed then for sheer exhaustion of spirit. Tho Niniane found ways to coax some laughter from such perverse occurrences, I grew only more pale and weak. And on the day Katherine was laid to rest, blood flowed from between my thighs and my babe died within my body. The midwife made examination of the tiny thing and said it had the appearance of a male child. This was told to Henry who came to my chambers in a fury even greater than when Elizabeth was born a girl.

  He did not shriek at me, but spoke coldly. “I see clearly God does not wish to give me male children.” When I said that this was not God’s doing, that this premature birth came with news of his own death, roughly handled by Norfolk, he was neither moved nor consoled. He had no pity for my weak condition or my loss — only his — and strode from the room without a backward glance saying he would speak to me when I’d recovered.

  Margaret Lee who’d stayed so close and faithful, burst to tears upon his leaving. I thought to comfort her saying I would surely have another babe, but she was inconsolable, speaking her fears to me. All Court buzzed with gossip that Henry now believed he’d been seduced thro my sorcery, and our marriage was null. God, he said, had shown him the truth of this with his failure to allow us sons, and now he meant to make a virtuous wife of Jane Seymour. Sorcery! I a witch! My six fingered hand, the Devil’s mark upon my neck, the potions I had used to heal his pains, magick in my fingers that soothed his aching head. These had finally come to haunt me. I saw that my fate was no better than Katherine’s, and Elizabeth’s no better than Mary’s. Banished Queen and bastard child sent to distant bleak houses with no leave to even seek the others comfort.

  My limbs are weak, my heart heavy. I lie abed with no will to leave it. What shall become of us?

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  6 February 1536

  Diary,

  How bitter is this day. My beloved Purkoy’s dead. News of his demise was delivered by the King with as much unkindness as false news of his own death was delivered by my Uncle Norfolk. I was praying with my Chaplain Matthew Parker when Henry came exploding thro my chamber door to say that he was off to London for Shrove Tuesday, and that he required me to stay behind in Greenwich. I begged him please to let me join him, for Elizabeth was housed in London and I had need of seeing her. He refused that request and, too, refused to even take a list of measurements for several silken caps I wanted made for her, saying cruelly she had little need for such fine caps, and asking had I nothing better to do with my time than write silly lists of useless things.

  My temper flared at hearing such rude sentiments about our daughter, and I chastised him roundly saying his inconsistent love gave others leave to show disloyalty. Even Master Cromwell now lifted his cap at mention of the Lady Mary’s name.
To this Henry made no reply, at least none that satisfied. He made move to go and I held his arm speaking harsh truths of his new mistress Lady Jane.

  “She plays you, Henry, plays you as I used to do. In fact she plays my games. I hear she would not take the purse of gold sovereigns that you gave her, would she Henry? Would not soil her virtue nor her honor taking such a gift if she were not first your lawful wife? Are you so blind you cannot see that she has two clever brothers who seek advancement for them selves thro her?”

  “Hold your wicked tongue, Madame. Hold or have it silenced for you.”

  “And how would you have me silenced, Henry? Divorce me? Send me to a nunnery?”

  “Do not try my patience, Anne. ‘Tis worn dangerous thin.”

  But I found courage and faced him, held his mad glittering eyes with mine.

  “I never loved you, Henry. Never once in those ten years.” His mouth quivered but his jaw held firm as I goaded his pride with a coy smile. “Did you think I came to love you? Yes, you did.” The color rose in his fat cheeks as I spoke those lying words for truly, Diary, I had loved him once for a time, before I gave my self to him. And in Calais, and that winter after. But now I gave him no satisfaction of that love.