The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Read online

The Diary

  of

  Anne Boyeln

  Elizabeth turned the page.

  4 January 1522

  Diary,

  So strange, a book of empty pages. I have never seen in all my life a thing so very odd or very wonderful as this parchment diary. For different from a book that I might read whose author offers up to me like some rich meal, his thoughts and words and deeds, this empty volume defies and mocks me, begs of me to make its pages full. But full of what?

  Thomas Wyatt, giver of this gift, insists that I am able, offering as proof that I’ve acquired, he says, the habit of writing in several languages, that I’m adept at conversation, full of witty anecdotes, delightful stories of the French Court. These are compliments, to be sure, from a gentleman to a lady but they hold a draught of Truth. In deed Wyatt, gift in hand, had found me in the tiny day room set aside for Queen Katherine’s waiting women, quite alone and sitting at the writing table quill in hand, a letter to my Mother almost done.

  I turned to see him, smiled an honest smile. For Wyatt is a great man among men. A writer, in deed the finest poet in Henrys English Court, handsome in the extreme, very tall and vital. He is said to be, save royal blood, Henrys equal and is in fact the Tudor King’s good and constant companion. Since my cold and miserable homecoming from the French King’s Court this gentleman has singled me from other ladies, showering me with more favors even than my fair Sister Mary. He flatters me boldly in his poems which are the cause of much admiration and some jealousy. But even this had not prepared me for so unusual a gift.

  “Few men and fewer ladies still, commit their words in such a way,” said he. “But in my mind there is none I know whose thoughts and dreams, whose wit and history should better grace these pages.” He said he found this courtly life too close and gregarious for easy fostering of solitary thoughts, but bade me remember that we are always alone, even in the midst of others. And then he said, “If you find a way to write with open heart to Diary, a friend with Truth, no detail spared, your tome like Petrarch’s works will contain the scattered fragments of your soul.”

  I was clean amazed. Thomas Wyatt, clever man, had offered up like some Yuletide walnut pressed within the soft sweet flesh of a date, an arch challenge hid within the kindest compliment. I knew then that despite small opportunity in a waiting ladies life for such work, that / must write and coupled with a careful plan, conceal my act of privacy. The carven chest I carried home from France has lock and key and there my journal intime shall find its safe repose.

  Wait! I hear the laughter of approaching Queen and ladies echoing down the passage. They come returning from some amusement, so I must end and join amongst them. Till then I shall remain

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  15 January 1522

  Diary,

  I’ve feigned a head ache and stayed behind, the others gone to see the bear baiting in the castle yard. I sit just near the window in my tiny room with quill in hand and think upon my daily life to find that Time has little changed my gloomy mood. Since my return from France to Henry’s dull provincial Court I wait upon his pious Queen, carrying her woollen sleeves or soiled linen thro dark and narrow passages, the grey damp rock walls chilled by English mists that rise up from the Thames. They chill my heart as well and I find my self adrift in longing.

  Had Father not been called home from France, all cordial diplomacy with them in ruins, then I should be, as in my dreams still am, dancing nightly in Francis’ glittering Court. There was glamour, brilliance, beauty and there was wild and wicked amour. That devilish King (though to be fair Henry’s person compares in size and majesty and virile handsomeness) has a thing of which our Sovereign never dreamt or wished to have — bawdy, splendid love of lust which he does grant to each and every member of his elegant entourage.

  ‘Twas in France I spent my youth and education from early nursery days, close companion to the little lame Princess Renee. High arched windows of the royal palace welcomed in a kind of crystal light that made blaze each color to most extreme brightness. Every wall was hung, every nook was stuffed, every floor inlaid with priceless treasures — tapestries, paintings, statues and metalwork to tease and please the senses. Great philosophers, writers, scholars flocked there from every port. We would dine in the company of the great poet Marot, gaze for hours at da Vinci’s Mona Lisa brought by that fine Italian gentleman to grace the King’s own hall. Ah, the time, the place, they linger in my mind. I have a memory — a moment in a perfect day within a life a world away. I will tell it full and let you see, my Diary, what life had been not long ago for Mistress Anne Boleyn.

  … I hurried down the sunny palace corridor to meet Josette where at our fitting she had promised me to tell a tasty bit of gossip. But then I saw King Francis approaching like a torch carried thro the black night, his own loud and bawdy presence outshining his many jewels. The men of his French Court glittered in his reflected brilliance, strutted with certainty and impudent grace embracing his every word, flattering his every elegant move, quenching his every whim.

  They drew nearer. I boldly met the French King’s eye and held his blatant gaze before dropping the lowest of seductive bows. I arose and knew that all the courtiers were admiring me, caressing me, undressing me. The’ King, his men and I exchanged some words —a compliment on His Majesty’s latest Italian plunder, a jest at another lady’s expense, a greeting to my Father the Ambassador, an invitation to play at cards. I tilted my head, flashed my eyes, smiled a teasing smile. Years of cultured coquettry worked a spell, for I knew that they were thinking, “This is Anna de Boullans, sister to Marie the infamous English mare. This one is young, still unsullied. Here stands a pretty world of possibilities and potential seductions. Let me smile the most handsomely, pose the most brazenly, cause with my wit the brightest laugh. Let me be her lover first and win from my King, if indeed he does not bed her before, his deep and salacious admiration. Let me be the one to share with His Majesty — for it is his greatest pleasure — the titillating details of our passionate liaison, the very words spoken in heated embrace.”

  So with sly innuendo before I took my leave I pretended to yield to thoughts of lasciviousness and goad them on to fantasy, with me at its delicious center. They knew not as they sauntered on to their next small amusement that I was whole as ever in body and maidenly resolve. Virginity was mine for I was well taught in this matter.

  I saw my sister and the names she was called. Mary was a true beauty, but she was dull minded, led only by the reins of desire and that day’s aggrandizement. She thought of nothing past the one night’s conquest.

  I learned, too, from the Queen we served, Claude — dowdy and chaste. All Claude’s ladies scorned her ways and flaunted her husband’s escapades. To most she was of no account. But not to me. For what I saw was that she was Queen. She wore the Crown, held the King of France between her thighs and passed thro them Royal Princes who bore his name. The gilt and witty ladies of Court in silken gowns, ablaze with jewels and hotly pursued … had nothing. Neither love nor name nor lasting glory. I played their game. Laughed and flirted, pretended to debauchery, drank from a goblet etched inside with salacious scenes… and did not blush. I kept my counsel. I was but fifteen.

  The sunny French corridor filled with sparkling music and a scent of rich parfum drifted to me and by. I touched the colored marble of a naked god upon a pedestal. I gazed upon his stony sheath of maleness, and thought of flesh. His thigh was cool, my hand upon it warm, nay burning hot. I deep inhaled.

  Rude shouts and the scream of a dying dog in the courtyard. My sweet reverie shattered, brittle ice upon the window glass. I am in England. But I am sick in my heart and lonely for that golden life. I wish I were in France.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  ELIZABETH SAT MOTIONLESS, stunned by the revelations of the diary. What strange and singular fortune had placed this document in her hands, that she should now be made privy to her mother’s most
intimate thoughts, and a world almost forty years past.

  Elizabeth felt as though she had suddenly found entrance into a secret chamber long sealed — as a tomb — in which hidden were mysteries dreadful as they were fascinating, dangerous as they were important. She searched her heart, but found nothing that might be called love for the shadowy personage who had been her father’s mistress for six years, his wife and queen for three. Elizabeth had, since childhood, built up around her heart thick walls to protect it against Anne’s shameful memory. Her bitterness at the traitoress’s death and its tainting of her own life was the mortar.

  The crown had been Elizabeth’s for so short a time. And she was beset by the gravest of decisions every day which affected not simply her life but all of England, all of her subjects. If indeed the fates had chosen to bestow the diary upon her at this crucial moment, she thought, she would be foolish to accord it anything less than the utmost attention.

  A sharp knock at the Presence Chamber door starded the Queen. “A moment more, Kat!”

  Her mind raced. Against all odds her mother had kept secret the diary throughout her life. Now no one but herself and Lady Sommerville knew of its existence. Elizabeth determined in that moment that no one else should ever know. She would lie to Kat about the reason for Lady Sommerville’s mysterious visit. And she would hide the diary away under lock and key. In the most public of lives, it would be her most private secret. Elizabeth concealed the claret volume in a pile of state documents before calling her waiting ladies back into the Presence Chamber.

  “With whom is my next audience?” she inquired mildly of Kat.

  “Lord Braxton and his son. After that is your morning consultation with Lord Cecil. And then a sitting for your portrait, Madame.”

  “Very good. I’m going to my apartments for a moment,” said Elizabeth, scooping up the documents and moving toward a concealed door, the back way to her rooms.

  “Now?” cried Kat. “Lord Braxton has been waiting. And Lord

  Cecil…”

  “Let them wait,” said Elizabeth, clutching the diary to her breast and disappearing through the door.

  Kat Ashley hummed absently as she poked at the fire in the Queen’s bedchamber. Elizabeth was irritated with her own nervous pacing and clammy hands which now worried a silk tassel at her waist.

  “What gown will Her Majesty wear for the evening’s entertainment?” asked her waiting lady.

  Elizabeth knew that her answer would elicit a flurry of unwanted questioning. Still she said, “I won’t be joining in, Kat. I want to be alone this night.”

  “Very good. I’ll have them bring our supper up. We’ll eat it by the fire.”

  “No, Kat, I mean to be quite alone.”

  The lady blinked, not yet comprehending Elizabeth’s words. The Queen was never unattended. Kat herself slept on a pallet at the foot of Elizabeth’s bed. She, at the very least, should stay and —

  “Just bring some candles now, all you can find. Light them round my chair.”

  “Candles?”

  “Make it bright as you are able.”

  “I don’t know what’s got into you, Elizabeth.”

  “Please.”

  There was no sense in arguing with the Queen when she had made up her mind, decided Kat. No sense at all.

  Elizabeth sat in her highbacked chair, flickering candles creating a halo of golden light around her head. The only sounds were the wind in the chimney and the crackle of burning wax. After Kat and her ladies had gone, leaving the Queen in blessed silence, Elizabeth had removed a small key hidden in the lining of a silver box and opened the heavily carved Italian chest that sat under the window. From amongst the delicate folds of her own christening robes she then pulled her mother’s diary. It had taken almost a week for her to find this moment of privacy, though the thought of the secret book had played at the edges of her mind every hour of every day since old Lady Sommerville had brought its mystery into her life.

  The trunk, scented with lavender, was packed with neady folded linen and garments, some of them hers, some of them her brother Edward’s, some of them her father’s, which she kept as mementos — all that was left of her family. Pulling aside an embroidered tunic and a pair of leather hawking gloves, Elizabeth had found the small wooden trinket box she sought, the painted and gilt Bible scene on its lid long since worn away. Seeing the box released a flood of childhood memories, disjointed images from the nursery, from Hatfield Hall — some warm, some painful, all as much a part of her as her next breath.

  The lid removed, all inside was immediately visible, a worthless jumble of paste jewelry, the vaguely heart-shaped stone a romantic young Robin had given her, an enameled thimble for a tiny finger, a mouse’s skull, a faded bluejay feather. And her mother’s handkerchief.

  Elizabeth disentangled the square of fine linen from the other contents and held it in her hands. It was stained yellow with age and the lace edging was ragged in places, but the embroidered H and A, her parents’ initials, were yet lovingly entwined for eternity.

  Now the Queen sat with the diary resting in her lap, the handkerchief a bookmark, and opened the book to the third entry. She squinted at the script on the page. She would have to read slowly, for her vision was weak and such strain readily brought on the headaches that caused her much misery. With chances for privacy so scant, she knew that reading the diary would take some time. But Elizabeth minded not at all. She would simply savor it like a rich wine, for Anne’s story, she felt, must be a piece of the riddle that was her destiny as a woman — and a queen. She began to read.

  4 April 1522

  Diary,

  Such a Sunday it has been! Chapel done, an early summons from my Father brought me to the countinghouse where he was near finished with the feast plans for the Cardinal’s visit. I approached him where he sat behind the green baize table in a tete a tete with the Cofferer, an ugly man who from the corner of his lecherous eye surveyed me foot to head. I wished to go, for even then the Cardinal’s barge approached, but I was forced to stay, quiet and obedient till time permitted a daughters audience with her master.

  He finally spoke to say that Sir Piers Butler had been made Lord Deputy of Ireland and I should make haste to my betrothed to add congratulations on his fathers appointment. At mention of James Butler and his kin I felt my face go hard, but quick replaced it with pleasant smile. I do fear his warlord father known to murder relatives, and loathe the wimpish ass of a son who likes me not much better than I like him. Yet James, when haggling and dowry are concluded by Father and King and Cardinal, is meant to be my lawful husband. You see my Father’s Father owns vast Irish estates, but our cousin that vile Piers Butler has prevented we Boleyns from ever occupying those lands. My marriage then to James, ‘tis thought, will end old disputes resolving matters, bringing peace to all. I shall travel to wild Irish lands to reign among the savage barefoot peasants there as Lady Butler. So they say I shall. So they say.

  Dismissed and free at last I rushed away and stopped before the great bay window seeing Cardinal Wolsey’s gilt and painted barge gliding thro the marshy river edge to meet the palace landing stage. My heart leapt and I wondered should I go and calm myself, sit demurely within the chamber of the Queen, or should I fly cross the palace lawn to greet the one I love?

  Then thro window glass I saw a flash of scarlet taffeta and then a great and ponderous form. Wolsey, red of hat and glove and gown, magnificent in his obesity preceded by his yeomen bearing all his Cardinal’s stuff— silver crosses, pillar, hat, Great Seal of England. From out the palace doors with pomp and circumstance marched King’s officials wreathed in golden chains whose tall white staffs they thumped importantly. I knew if here was Wolsey, sure his household followed close behind. And then I saw a figure plainly clad and lovely to my eyes — Henry Percy, thin and shy with kindness like a halo round a clear and rosy face. My heart beat wild within my breast. Even from a distance and tho he saw me not at all, I felt his love and knew he wished to
break away and come to me.

  So making haste I fairly ran thro the halls and up the stairs to Queen Katherine’s rooms where other ladies did attend Her Majesty. I watched the flutter — the waiting women, cooks and maids fussing, tittering, joking every one. The Queen was breaking fast and tho weary eyed, showed gentle cheer this Sunday morn. The two days last were spent, as always Friday and Saturday are, upon her knees on hard stone floors in chapel, fasting, asking God’s forgiveness for sins which, to all else, are goodly deeds. I wondered if the habit of St. Francis worn hid beneath her queenly gown did chafe, or give her comfort sorely needed.

  You see, tho husband Henry loves her still he takes pleasure in their bed no more. For that he seeks none other than her waiting lady my Sister Mary! A French King’s whore, now mistress of Great Harry. I bade Mary tell me how she casts her spells, for truth be told tho she is beautiful, the Court is filled with lovely ladies. She smiled a wicked smile and said to me, “With men it’s how you hold them — tight, then loose, then let them go to grab and hold again.”

  But truly, I have no need for such games with my love, for he is mine and I am his, as clear as these words are writ upon this page. But I digress. Back to that Sunday …

  The ladies of the Presence Chamber stilled, for suddenly a male commotion down the hall and coming near was heard. And then they came, a rush of rough and ready gentlemen, all kisses, bows and compliments. Ladies paired with men to play and sing and flirt an afternoon away. Among the gents, a mild breeze amidst the storm, was my love. At first no words were passed between us. Instead he found two pillows, an empty window seat and placed the cushions there. He took my hand and brushed it softly with his lips, then led me to our little nest.

  I swear my heart was beating so, I feared I would not hear his words. He was kind and generous and so unlike the lecherous gentlemen of the French Court that my studied charm had long ago dissolved beneath his warming stare. Whate’er his awkward faults I easily forgave. But my eyes could see a pall darkening sweet Percys spirit, so I questioned him of it. I wished I had not asked. For the sad tale he told was that in recent days, added to my poor betrothal to James Butler, was now his own betrothal. He was tied to Lady Mary Talbot and for this marriage many reasons, all but love, were given.