The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 18
But my Aunt, the ill tempered Lady Norfolk, lately showed a most outrageous hatefulness to me, taking much offense at my raising in position. True, the pedigree that Henry had commissioned for the Boleyn lineage is clearly false. This ornately gilt and richly painted family tree is rooted all in lies. My earliest forebear was one Geoffrey Boleyn, a wool merchant first known on English soil a hundred years ago — not as Henrys heralds writ, some venerable Norman lord come to England five hundred years before. But despite my warnings and my pleas, knowing this invention would incense nobility whose pedigrees were truly pure, Henry insisted on this deceit and thus displayed the proud and painted document within the halls of Court. Most ladies whispered, keeping their cruel jests at my expense behind their fluttering fans. Not so the Duchess Norfolk. She marched grandly in, looked upon the document, took it up within her hands and rent the thing in two!
No wonder that Henrys health does poorly. He’s turned forty now and the years show upon his face and form, both of which are grown substantially in bulk. His face, no longer boyish, is a careworn mask of misery. A great pustulant ulcer on his thigh causes more pain than a man should bear. His head aches constantly. He hardly rides at all.
I have tried to minister to Henry. Gone to see apothecaries, even women known as witches for the cures for all his ills. One potion of calendula and slippery elm made some fair improvement on his festering leg for several days, but soon it stank with poisoned blood and pus again. When he moans with head ache I take his head between my hands and knead the temples, smooth the furrowed brow. He whispers piteously, “Ah, Nan, your cool fingers, cool hands.” In these times when he is my prisoner, I do feel affection for the man. If truth be told I fear Henry too much to love him truly, love him in my heart as I once loved sweet Percy. To hear me lash the King with my sword tongue you would never know I quake at his approach. For I know his capabilities, the inner fire that goes to madness. In his soul I see a battleground, frightened demons in his head who rage perpetually gainst the angels of intelligence, of reason and of poetry. Only Wolsey knew this much about the King … and he is dead.
All others see him as he bids them do, most magnificent in deep slashed doublet, wide shouldered crimson silks and satins, furs and gilt, a great God Poseidon, earth shaker, storm bringer. He means for all to fear him thus, and when they do he then despises them. I fear the mad King but must transpose the fear to taunting laughter, harsh words to match his own. He does not see my great performance, thinks that save for royal blood I am his equal. Perhaps ‘tis only equal in the way the hart is equal to the one pursuing it, with horse and hound until the hart’s own death. But this equality I know to be the reason he does love me. Why he’ll move the Seven Hills of Rome to make me Queen.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
2 September 1532
Diary,
I thought I had in entries past made catalog of enemies complete. But one has come from so far afield (perhaps so low) that even I was taken by surprise. Henry’s made clear to all that we shall marry, and those who wish our wedding never comes to pass do try in every way to make impediment to it. Some argue that the King’s marriage to the Queen is fair, legitimate and can’t be broke. Some say divorce is wrong, against the will of God. Others argue that I am most unfit, neither high born nor do I bring much advantage as a foreign princess would.
But suddenly here dances Lady Northumberland upon the stage of royal politicks. This bitter, festering sore of a woman, the wife long estranged from my dear Henry Percy, comes forward with a damning letter — one averring Lord Northumberland admitted precontract of marriage to me. This, if proven true, could make invalid my wedding to Henry. Well, the charge is true, its facts writ upon these very pages long ago. Tho ‘twas just a promise made between two lovers one day to marry, this is called a precontract, and bound us legally. But I was loath to let this wicked hag burn my glorious bridges all to ash. So I acted boldly.
First, I my self took the offending letter to the King and said to him, “This thing is patently untrue. ‘Tis spoke by one who wishes only harm because her husband never loved her … for he loved me. In youth we shared a true and deep attraction, but I swear we never were betrothed nor were we lovers of the sort implied, before the Cardinal Wolsey parted us. I beg you, call the man accused of this lie before your self and let him speak the truth.” The King, who fervently wished the lady’s letter false, agreed and sent for scribes to write petition to Northumberland.
Meanwhile I called my messenger who carried my letter quickly to Percy, asking for a secret meeting in a place we’d met so many years before. Under covering of night, veiled and in disguise, I made my way past sleepy palace guards to waiting carriage which, with I a solitary passenger, clattered thro the winding cobbled streets deserted but for scavengers and filthy prostitutes. I’d not seen Percy close at hand for many years. I now recalled his face, that sweet expression on his rosy unlined brow, and how it made my heart work an unsteady rhythm, made my feet skip quick and lightly where my sweetheart always was.
The carriage put me down at Rosewood Publick House —• a tavern, rooms upstairs. Time had not allowed reply from Lord Northumberland and I could only hope he would appear. Inside I asked a slovenly porter in which room I’d find Master Long-heart (a nom de plume we’d used in passing youthful love notes). The ale soaked fellow leered at me, the creases of his coarse face caked with grime. “What’d’ya want with one like that?” he muttered most impertinent.
“Tell me where he is,” I shrilled insistently through heavy veils.
A stubbly chin pointed up the stairs. “Number three.”
The door opened ‘fore I knocked. He’d heard my footsteps in the hall. Smoky lanterns lit the tiny room, sagging bed, the sagging man who’d bid me enter there. Ah Lord, I cannot paint a portrait of that ravaged face and piteous soul without a fit of weeping. Tho he’ll not admit the fact, the man is ill. He has that lifeless color — grey with feverish red veined patches, sunken eyes. Naught was left of that lovely boy except his kindly eyes which now held my own. “Anne. Come in,” he said raspy throated. Then he closed the door.
We passed no more than one dangerous hour there together. First we spoke of sweet times past, the truth of our adventures, the strange path my life had taken, his forced and loveless marriage to the shrew who sought my destruction now, and of his summons from the King. Percy knew that there was one and only one answer to be given Henry — and that a lie. The King wished no truth be spoke if that truth would keep us two apart. So as friends with no apologies, Henry Percy and my self agreed to be united one last time — and disavow our hearts true marriage to the other.
When he spoke to Henry and the Parliament I was watching from the balcony. Poor Percy seemed more shrunken, grey and old than he had been but several days before. Hoarse voice steady, he denied our prearrangement thrice, as Judas did three times deny his Lord. Satisfied, the Parliament and Henry said “Stand down” and that was simply that.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
6 October 1532
Ah Diary,
An autumn idyll, this. Floating on a lazy gilded barge down winding River Thames past farms and fields and villages, the drifting yellow afternoons are sweet and warm. No prying eyes nor peevish voices rend our peaceful hours. The King of England and Marquess de Pembroke (‘tis my new title naming me the highest peer in all the realm save Henry and the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk) travel this liquid road toward Dover for the Channel crossing to Calais. There as planned we’ll meet the High King of France and he shall stand as witness to our marriage. God be praised, we shall finally be wed!
Once the Archbishop of Canterbury, Warham, died of much advanced age and left that most important office free, Henry’s mind seemed to open like some spring flower, all possibilities bursting forth, seeds of optimistic change flying out to fill the air. Even dour courtiers who feigned excuses so they could stay behind on this, our wedding journey, failed to dampen
Henry’s mood. My doubts of marrying not on proper English soil where Queens are wont to be married and crowned, Henry laid to rest, assuring me that Francis’ firm support was worth its weight in gold to us, and I’d be crowned in England later. Nor even did the talk of plague in country towns along the river route deter his happiness. Instead he made a whirl of preparations — sent for armies then, of jewellers, silk women, lace makers, furriers —? providing me with my wedding chest.
We boarded the Royal Barge at Greenwich. Wooden wardrobes filled with clothing, crates of hangings, rugs and golden dinnerware, even Henry’s great Bed of State was broken down and taken with. Our friends and favorites — George and Mary, Henry Norris, Francis Bryan, Thomas Wyatt — now travel overland with many hundreds more (our retinue) to meet us at Dover for the crossing. My heart drums with pleasure and anticipation. My mind is rife with thoughts and plans and dreams about to be fulfilled.
In the glittering water I see a waking vision. A thousand candles burning in Winchester Cathedral — a christening. There before the font am I, Queen of England, the tiny babe swathed in silk and lace cradled in my arms, his sweet face a miniature of Henry’s. I see his father smile at us — his wife and lawful Tudor Prince — all pain, all anger now erased, all but love forgotten. Beyond the King I see his once resentful courtiers now filled with praise and joy — yielding fealty to the Mother of their future King. And there behind all these phantom figures stands my Father. That hard face molded soft, lips bowed into a smile, eyes moist. He is proud of me, my life, my royal child.
The vision dies. A cloud has blocked the sun, extinguished all the glittering candles made of river glow. In the shadowy waters now I see a different fantasy. There stand my staunchest foes. The ghost of Cardinal Wolsey, tho restored to red robed dignity and clutching silver cross and miter in his hands, stands bathed in hellfires flames. His lips move, uttering curses on my head, but he makes no sound at all, impotence and silence his damnation. I see Katherine and Mary and, too, the evil tongued Duchesses of Norfolk and of Suffolk. They are grown old and quite repulsive, bent with humps upon their backs, skin mottled, teeth black. Shrill cackling voices.
Now the sun bursts forth once more cleansing my mind of this pustulant dream, flooding it with bright hope. Mayhaps I’ll learn the lesson that befits a Queen — magnanimity, generosity of spirit to my enemies — and find that well of kindness from which all acts of goodness spring. Or mayhaps I’ll not.
I must end my mindful wandering to meet with Henry for a sunset supper on the deck. He has promised a surprise and so I shall soon write again.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
7 October 1532
Diary,
My hand trembles as I write today. But it is not the morning damp and bitter draughts that chill the chambers in this barge and shake the quill within my hand. Rather, and to my complete surprise, it is a deeply felt emotion that is rattling both my body and my soul. That emotion? Love. Sweet and most sincere stirrings in my heart and loins for my betrothed. A miracle both hoped and prayed for now becomes a living fact.
If one would hear of our night together, of Henrys surprise to me, he might surmise that this is not true love I feel, but only gratitude for generosity. For last night when I appeared on deck to sup, laid upon the trestle was neither mutton, tarts nor roasted hare, but piled all of Katherine’s jewels, the family treasure — bracelets, necklaces, brooches, ear bobs, rings and small tiaras made of pearls and emeralds, diamonds, rubies, sapphires — all sparkling in the dying orange sun. He stood proud behind them, eyes dancing, waiting like a little boy for my shocked expression, cries of joy. But I was speechless, paralyzed.
“Well,” he said. “What say you, Nan? I fought for these with Katherine as a mastiff fights a bear.” I know that he expected warm embraces, kisses, extravagant praise for so wonderful a gift. But all that I could do was laugh! A laugh lacking all control and very loud in deed. I promise, my mirth was not at Katherine’s discomfiture, but more as tho a cork was pulled from some great cask of pain within my soul. All fears, hatred, ugliness of six years past were spewed forth upon the sound of my laughter. It proved contagious, this rush of hurt dispersed, and Henry joined me with his own brand of great and hearty loud guffaws. We found we could not stop, were bent double, it ached our sides until clutching one another, tears streaming down our faces we slowed and stopped. Saw each others eyes. Kissed. First briefly, lips wet and salty, then longer, deeply. I felt my heart pound a fierce rhythm in my chest. Heat moved from thigh and belly to my groin. Knees turned to jelly. And unbidden, my mind whispered in repeated chant, “I love you, Henry, love you Henry, love you.
Great unutterable joy welled within myself. I clung to this man, this faithful friend whose large love had borne him, tho not unscathed yet whole, thro storms and raging seas, all that he might marry me. So sudden was my hunger and my need to cling to him, ‘twas he that made an end to our passionate embrace.
“Nan, Nan,” he whispered. “Let us stop or you will never see our wedding night a virgin.” He released me, a look of wonder in his eyes for truly he had never ‘fore this moment felt such fervency in my many kisses. “Here, put this on.” He bade me turn and placed a heavy necklace on me.
“Let me look at you.” Hands upon my shoulders, Henry turned me to him. In his eyes I saw reflected there the sparkling water, dying sunset light, glittering gems upon my throat, but most importantly … my love. I know he saw that love and he smiled warmly. “I am the most happy man in all of England,” said the King.
“And I,” said I, “am the most happy woman.”
Yours faithfully,
Anne
18 October 1532
Diary,
What gay, delirious nights and days. Clothed in gowns and royal jewels, surrounded by a dazzling entourage, I bask in rounds of banquets, masques and balls in my honor. A strange and lovely place is this Calais. French soil, English rule, the last of Britain’s Continental land, it’s made me more welcome than my land of birth has ever done. Leaving the Exchequer where we’re lodged luxuriously, in grand procession through the ancient walled city on our way to St. Nicholas to hear the mass, crowds cheered Henry and my self. Children gave me flowers, men and women both smiled at me sincerely.
I have lately quieted my raging heart which threatened bursting when upon arrival back in Dover Towne before our crossing, news came that Eleanor, the Queen of France (and my old mistress) had, with all the other highborn ladies of the Court, refused to receive me, or stand with Francis at my wedding. I do understand Queen Eleanor’s position. She is a sister to the Emperor and therefore Katherine’s kin. But Francis’ sister, Duchess Marguerite of Alencon, has no excuse for this insulting stance. As a girl in Francis’ Court I served her loyally and with great affection, learnt not only strength of mind from her but talent for a bawdy and outrageous style that men so love. Too, she strayed from strict convention, entertaining Lutheran ideas within the Catholic Court. ‘Twas none but Marguerite of Alencon who gave me leave to read the tracts in which King Henry later saw a way to make the Church his pawn. This grievous rebuff felt the bitterest betrayal, tho not half so vile as the French King’s offer — better called an insult — to bring the Duchess de Vendome with him instead. This woman is notorious for her tarnished reputation — a courtesan! These arrogant women of the French Court, they forget I know them well, licentious and lascivious, the lot. I’d like to know which among them could have held their King’s lust six years a hostage? I’ll wager none.
On hearing this hurtful news I held my tongue. I stood, head straight and high, never letting reckless temper get the best of me. I bade Henry tell his cousin Francis leave the Duchess de Vendome at home and come alone — his own presence meant the most to me. Henry, used to seeing wild tantrums, saw instead a Queenly dignity. Most proud and happy, he said that nothing now could stop him from his course. With Francis by his side our marriage shall proceed.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
22 October 1532
Diary,
Pails clanking, whispering as they work, my maids fill a metal tub before a blazing fire in my bedchamber, lighting several braziers to warm the chilly room for my bathing. I know Henry’s Master of the Body does the same in his adjoining room in the Exchequer.
I can already hear how my ladies shall gossip when I release them from their chores. “The King and Marquess de Pembroke both have bathed,” they’ll say in muted tones. “They’d dined and drunk a bit — we smelt wine on her breath, you know. ‘Twas early still when she returned to her apartments and told us that she’d bathe. When we went looking for the copper tub, Exchequer stewards told us Henry’s men had likewise sought a tub for him. Lady Anne was singing, in a happy mood when we returned with it. We warmed the water properly, sprinkled it with scented roses, essences and oils and helped her in. There’s not much to Lady Anne, you know. Quite skinny, little breasts, long and slender neck. You’d wonder what the King saw in her, you would. Anyway, once bathed she had us place her fresh and parfumed body into thirteen yards of satin, black with velvet trim — a most magnificent nightdress Henry’d had her made — and had us next undo her long black hair and brush it till it matched her gown. Then she bade us go. She means to bed the King this night,” they’ll whisper scandalized neath their hands. “Five days before they’re wed. All these years a virgin. Why not wait? I’ll never understand.”
I shall explain the why and wherefore of my strange decision. I’ve writ of my new discovered love for Henry and of the great round of celebrations ‘fore our wedding, hosted by Calais. This night is one before the King rides to Boulogne for meeting Francis, jousting, wrestling, feasting with him and later then for bringing him hither for our wedding. Henry and my self decided we’d dine privately on this occasion, for on his return and with the marriage, all manner of excitement will ensue, and privacy must needs elude us.