The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 6

  “Damn head!” she hissed. Her forehead was clammy and she was not at all sure she could make it to her bed. If this was the effect that reading her mother’s diary had on her, thought Elizabeth, it would take forever to finish it. But the idea was driven from the Queen’s mind as a bolt of pain crashed through her skull. She had barely the strength to call for her ladies to help her before the spinning lights inside her head grew dark.

  6 November 1525

  Diary,

  I have not writ in so long, for all reports from Hever would have talked of nothing more than ennui. But now I am gratefully received at Court again, back in service to the Queen. I sleep in close quarters with Her Majesty and other waiting ladies, in all we are seven. The time is lively spent with our King setting the daily pace — we never seem to sleep. Falconing, hunting — Henry is said to tire never less than eight or ten horses on a day — he wrestles, jousts. And watching him play at tennis is the prettiest thing in all the world. His favorite foe is Thomas Wyatt in whom he’s met his match. We sing, play on flutes and virginals — my pretty voice is popular — and dance most evenings. The Queens years are showing next to Henrys own vitality. Mayhaps his wandering eyes and hands and heart dull her spirit, for it seems her ladies shine more brightly than does she.

  My Father, raised to lofty heights, has new permission from the King to bring his household to the Court and live. My Mother, therefore with him has apartments in the palace, a rare favor, which I think she’s glad of. Two pretty panelled rooms with fine carven cupboards filled with plate and silk hangings o’er a great bed. No more dreary Hever, endless days of stitching till the fingers bleed. Beautiful still, my Mother takes her days in quiet grace. I see her watching from afar as younger women play the courtly game. Me she watches closely saying little. ‘Tis clear I am my Father’s charge, and he has plans for me. Plans he’ll not divulge.

  Cardinal Wolsey, gaining power, wealth and property with every passing day thro Henry’s faith in him, never sees me, even when I’m in his sight. He remembers nothing of his punishment to Percy and to me, nothing of the pain he caused. But I remember, O do I remember! Poor Percy, he is banished still. I must admit my heart’s grown ever colder since the loss of him. I have many playful suitors. They mean nothing. I will let my heart feel nothing. It is my part, I know, to play this game but I am not required to feel, and to be sure there’s no one who will care. I’m a pretty ornament, some property to buy and sell. So I’ll not give my heart to any one.

  Last night at supper hour there was amongst the rabble at a lower table some old hag whispered to be a witch. When the meal was done, dogs scavenging scraps beneath the groaning board and all the nobles gone to evening’s amusement, I found the woman and begged to bend her ear. She looked at me through clouded eyes whilst her hands still stuffed a pouch with bits of food the dogs had not yet found.

  “What d’ye want m’lady?” She smiled, if you would call it smiling, teeth beneath her lips black and rotten, her breath a putrid stench. “A spell, a potion, something magick that will hold your beauty everlasting?”

  I gave no answer but instead I put my hand in hers and turned it so the specially long and pointed sleeve did fall away, and she could see the little extra flesh and nail they call a finger.

  “Six fingers!” she cried and grasped my hand most greedily. “You must be Mistress Anne Boleyn.” It startled me, I tried to pull away. She held it fast. “You’re famous for this little finger. Aye. They say ‘tis a Devil’s mark.”

  “The same as this wen upon my neck,” I whispered and pulled my choker down so she could see the raised brown spot the necklace hid. “What think you, old woman, am I a witch like you?”

  She took no notice of the wen, instead stood staring at my hand in some long silence. The waxy smoke of candles stung my eyes. Her fetid breath was too much to bear. More silence, then I cried, “What say you! Tell me quickly, I’ll not stay much longer.”

  “Hold, Mistress, I am reckoning, reckoning, how much I can afford to pay for this small finger.” “What, buy the finger!”

  “Oooooh yes, Lady, cut it off, ‘twould hardly bleed and ‘twould look so lovely in a jar,” she whined, “alongside unborn bats wing, pregnant toads, the like.”

  “Certainly not!” I cried and pulled my hand away.

  “Did you not ask?”

  “I asked you your opinion on it, on me, not to be some ghoulish surgeon.”

  “My opinion,” she placed a bony finger on my cheek, “is that the Lady Anne has powers like a long and yellowed scroll as yet unfurled. And if she choose, she shall make a brilliant and an infamous career.” She shoved a wrinkled hand at me, palm up. I quickly filled it with a coin, then turned from her, caught my breath and took myself away. Brilliant and infamous. Her words rang so loud all day and evening within my head that I needed singing with my sister ladies to drown them out and give me peace.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  20 April 1526

  Diary,

  Having heard that Thomas Wyatt’s named the Master of the May Day Revels I rode out this day, very fine and warm, upon my favorite chestnut mare to Shooters Hill behind the Greenwich Palace. There, from deep inside the forest were the sounds of sawing work and hammering, so I unhorsed and went on foot down wooded paths to find so strange a scene I scarce believed my eyes.

  The rustic home of Robyn Hoode and his band of Merry Men was being built by royal carpenters, a rough banquet table set amongst the alder grove, a full jousting field was cleared with viewing trestles set in branching trees. I found Wyatt sitting, back against a tree with quill in hand, inscribing dialogue for Sherwood Forest’s Masque. His brow was furrowed deep, a frown upon his handsome face.

  “Come, Thomas, you should have no trouble thinking up an outlaw’s words. You’re one yourself.”

  “Anne, you took me by surprise!” He sprang to his feet but I pushed him back, sitting down beside him on the ground. “I’ve come to ask a favor, sir.”

  “You know your wish is always my command, so pray what favor have I granted you?”

  “That I’m Maid Marion in this masque. I’ve always liked her character. I think I’d play her well.” He smiled, but his look betrayed a sullen mood. “What is it, Thomas, tell me? You look poorly. Are you ill?”

  “No, Anne, not me. What worries have I, sitting in a wooded glen with such a lovely lady scribbling fanciful words for a pagan fertility rite on a sunny April day? ‘Tis my friend Henry there, in dreary council rooms who broods on grave and worldly matters now, and every day grows sadder still.”

  In truth I’d noticed the King’s listless mood, so different from his usual rough gaiety, but made little of it.

  “What ails him then?”

  “Do you really wish to know?” and looked at me peculiarly.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “It’s not the kind of gossip ladies care to hear.” By now the man was teasing me.

  “Do tell me, Thomas, or I’ll box your ears!”

  “Well then,” he said and settled back against the tree, “do you remember, or were you even born when Henry took the throne? How he shone then, like a star. The young King who, eager as a lion for war, invaded France in glittering armor, driving knights who fled from fields at the Battle of the Spurs. What glorious feats of soldiering! He captured towns, then treated enemies with such good grace he earned the name Great Harry. O, Anne, he was marvellous, and thought he would continue thus and one day conquer all of France. His Great Enterprise — so he called it — proceeded with, he hoped, the help of Queen Katherine’s nephew, Henry’s staunchest friend and ally.”

  “You mean the Emperor Charles of Spain,” I said. “The Queen is very fond of him.”

  “And he has used her in years past like an ambassador between the two. But now you see, Charles has armies larger than our Henry ever dreamed, and invaded France himself. King Francis is his prisoner.”

  “So I’ve heard. But what does it mean to Henry?
”

  “The Emperor no longer wants a part of Henry’s Great Enterprise. He has plans to conquer all the world alone. And this after Henry’d given half a million crowns to Charles for his adventures.”

  “So he is betrayed.”

  “Yes, but there is more. Henry will not give up his dream of conquest, and therefore let Cardinal Wolsey set a tax on all his subjects. The Amicable Grant he calls it, but the people call it injustice, and rebel. Tax collectors in the country — your father’s one — are met with loud resistance, sometimes force. The rabble fall upon commissioners and will not pay for Henry’s war, but worse, heap scorn upon the King and Cardinal Wolsey. So coupled with a traitorous ally, Henry faces open rebellion amongst the folk who loved and cheered him most.”

  “I see why he is troubled, and Katherine also. She’s torn between beloved kin and husband now.”

  “But Anne, Katherine is the problem, too. In taverns and in garrisons rumors abound that King Henry’s marriage is accursed. He has no sons, Princess Mary is his only heir, and there are mutterings that incest is the cause.”

  “Incest?!” I spoke the word so loud that workmen stopped and stared at us. I moved closer to his ear. “Incest? How do you mean?”

  “Katherine — you must know this — was married first to Henry’s brother Arthur. But he was weak and died ere the marriage was consummated, so said the Queen, and she was believed by all. Since the match with Spain was so important, and because the Princess Katherine then was fair and sweet, Henry wed her happily. All was well for many years, but now with Katherine past the time for bearing babes and Henry sonless, talk’s begun. Is God punishing him with a marriage barren of sons because he’d taken his brother’s widow as a wife?”

  “’Tis a cruel thought,” said I, thinking of the great love Katherine bore the King.

  “You know, Anne, that Henry is conversant with the Scripture and he has found there in Leviticus a plain answer to his tragedy. It says that if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is impure, he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness and they shall be childless. Henry’s begun to feel this tainted union will come to be his own undoing.”

  I was breathless. All that Wyatt said was finding place inside my head like pegs in perfect holes. I thanked him, saying that no one ever had spoke so plain and clear to me of weighty issues, timely news. I kissed him quickly, then taking from my waist a little lace and jewelled tablet, thrust it in his hands as a gift from me. He took the jewel and hung it round his neck.

  “I’ll wear it near my heart,” he said and kissed me. The kiss was lingering and might have led to sweeter things, but I pulled away and said, “Come calling when you’ve writ a poem for me in it, it won’t be hard …” I kissed his ear and smiled most wantonly. “Or will it?” Then lifting skirts and petticoats to show a bit of stockinged foot and ankle to his admiring eyes, I leapt away and into the wood.

  This night, by candlelight I found a quiet room and came to think. These things that Wyatt said, tho not my usual thoughts, do feel of some import and so I set them down in black and white in great detail, all the words I can remember. Time will tell if they are so, or nothing more or less than idle castle gossip.

  Yours faithfully,

  Anne

  2 May 1526

  Diary,

  When yesterday I dressed for May Day Revels, never did I dream the night would end with such portention. My frock — Maid Marion’s I mean — tho simple was quite elegant. Rough silk overdress in creamy white, fawn panels, sleeves embroidered thick with rosy trimming. The tight bodice cinched my waist to nothing, exposing bosom, shoulders, back.

  I let the Queen and other waiting women go ahead, claimed I’d left my headdress in our rooms and waited, watching courtly lords and ladies in their old style finery saunter down the garden path toward Shooters Hill. Hanging back I saw two hundred archers dressed in verdant velvet, line the forest path. Soon, I knew, Lord Benton playing Robyn Hoode would come with outstretched arms inviting all present “Come into the greenwood and see how outlaws live.”

  The Court assembled at the entrance of the wood and as rehearsed, the archers pulled back bows and let their arrows fly. But then when Robyn Hoode himself appeared a great cheer went up when it was known the outlaw was not Lord Benton, but the King himself! Great laughter and good cheer as Henry welcomed all and led them to his rustic grove. I waited then till all disappeared within the wall of trees. Waited till I heard the music wafting on the wind and knew the masque begun.

  As I hurried down the path I knew the other ladies would be whispering, “Where is Anne? She may not come. Who will play Maid Marion?” The time was ready. Robyn Hoode had battled sword and dagger with the Sheriffs men and climbed the tower where Marion would soon her self be revealed. I circled round, climbed the wooden stair to where the platform stage was set, pushed aside the startled lady who would take my place, and made my breathless entrance on the stage.

  Delighted gasps heard all round at my appearance, then suddenly I found my self face to face with His Majesty. He loomed so large, those blue and laughing eyes so bright, the smile so dazzling I felt the breath go out of me. He spoke his lines of love to Marion with bold and clever grace, and I spoke mine with equal elegance. Then he swept me up within his arms, my feet did lose the ground. I know ‘twas in the scripted play this close embrace, but I swear I felt the cod beneath the codpiece stir and when he kissed me, that too was most sincere.

  The masque went on to its finale, all were rejoiced, the actors gracious cheered. At play’s end the King was swept away by courtiers, the next event the joust to be prepared. I joined with other ladies at Queen Katherine’s side and felt her dark eyed searing stare. She must have seen the play was something more, her husband’s wandering eyes, his arms round my slender waist unlike her own thickening one, and hated me. But she said nothing, just went among her waiting ladies to the tiltyard hung with waving banners all of rainbow hue.

  My heart was beating fast, my mind aclutter and confused. Were the King’s attentions truly meant for me? Impossible, I thought, my Sister Mary’d warmed his bed not six months past. Twenty crashing trumpets and as many drums intruded on my fantasies as the joust began. Sound and colors, men in flashing steel on quivering horseflesh. The King astride his steed approached the Queen and as her favorite received, as custom told, her gossamer scarf for luck. But there within his gaze I saw nothing for his wife, no love, no care and in hers a pain so bright it hurt my eyes.

  The joust began, all knights and soldiers taking part, each great and ghastly charge with screams and cheers and curses, crashing armor, terrible falls and trampling hooves. Thomas Wyatt challenged Henry and was unhorsed. Unharmed, in good cheer to be beaten by his master, they strode arm and arm from the jousting field.

  At the banquet in a festooned chamber made of woven alder boughs and fragrant flowers, I was seated next to Wyatt who was very well and jolly in the candlelight.

  “Tell me, when did Henry steal the part of Robyn Hoode from Lord Benton?” I asked.

  “When he found ‘twas you would play Maid Marion. When the masque began and you were nowhere to be found, ‘twas clear he was distracted.”

  “And when I suddenly appeared?”

  “Anne, I needn’t tell you what he felt. I’m sure you felt it too.”

  My cheeks burned red. I grabbed the goblet, drank some wine to cover my embarrassment and changed the banter then to something less unwise, and Thomas did oblige.

  But later when I took my rest from dancing in the cool darkness of the woods beyond the torch light, this night’s mystery and adventure full unfolded. I’d bent to fix my slipper when I felt a pair of manly hands behind me covering my eyes. He was tall with broad shoulders and I thought it Thomas Wyatt.

  “Have you writ your poem to me?” I said flirtatiously, then stood and turned to him. And for the second time that day, surprised, I found myself within the King of England’s firm embrace.

  “Poem?” He was smiling dow
n at me. “So you require a verse extolling all your beauty and your charm?”

  So strange. After that exchange all manner of emotion welled up within my breast and limbs and head. Fear, then courage, desire, then loathing, sweetness, bitterness, memories of past and thoughts of future, too. In that small moment when silence hung between his last words and my next phrase I felt a calm descend like some winged angel o’er my head. Courage slew fear and then I spoke.

  “Haven’t I virtues enough to make a pretty verse of me?”

  “More than enough.” His eyes bored into me.

  I gently pulled away beyond his arms. “Well, begin.”

  “What?” he said confused.

  “Begin the poetry. I’m waiting, Sire.”

  He laughed out loud at my audacity, calling me a demanding wench, but took the challenge up like a leather gauntlet thrown upon the ground. He began:

  “As the holly groweth and never changeth hue / So I am, ever hath been, unto my lady true.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “As the holly groweth green, with ivy all alone / When flowers cannot be seen: and the greenwood leaves be gone …

  “Now unto my lady promise to her I make … From all others only to her I me betake.”

  “Excellent, Your Majesty!” said I and clapped my hands.

  “Now do I get a kiss?”

  “You’ve had your kiss already, on the stage.”

  “Then I’ll have what comes after.” He pulled me back into his sturdy arms.

  “Stop it!” I cried and wrenched free.

  “You tell your King to stop? How dare you?”

  My heart was pounding in my chest. “For his own good,” said I, “protecting him from certain incestuous liaisons.”

  Even in the shadows I could see his face go flush with rage. “Incestuous?!” He seemed stricken, confused. Was I speaking of his sore and sinful marriage to his brother’s wife?