Anne Boleyn: A Novel (19 page)

“The King’s as much in love with me as ever,” she insisted. “He won’t thank that Northumberland bitch for trying to separate us.”

Wiltshire paused, biting his lower lip. There was something he wanted to say to Anne, something which nagged in his mind, but which he had never had the excuse to bring up until now.

“The King’s as much in love with me as ever.”

But Wiltshire did not think so. He had not thought so for some months, though he kept the opinion to himself. He saw his daughter living in royal state, taking the Queen’s place at court, free to wander in and out of Henry’s rooms whenever she liked, able to quarrel with him and then cajole him back; powerful enough to get great nobles and her own aunt, the Duchess of Norfolk, dismissed from court because they offended her, but he was still uneasy. The King’s feeling had altered, and it was entirely her own fault. Six years was a long time for a man to love one woman and to wait for the fulfillment of that love. It needed a woman of skill and tact, as well as fascination to achieve it; and recently Anne’s skill was failing and her tact had disappeared. He knew how she restored peace between the King and herself after their quarrels; he could imagine quite cold-bloodedly how she could lead Henry along a sinuous path of practiced sensuality, until the consummation became a mecca of physical desire. But her tongue and her arrogance were destroying the strongest link in the chain she had fettered on the King: sentimentality.

Wiltshire knew his master; he knew his crudity, his immense self-will, his cruelty and his unexpected kindnesses, and he knew that the instinct which enjoyed playing the chivalrous lover was being frustrated. That was the bond which had held him to Catherine for fifteen years. She was submissive and affectionate. Anne might have the sensual capacity of the Grand Turk’s entire harem, but without those two qualities, she would never keep the King.

“Whatever our quarrels in the past,” Wiltshire said at last, “you are my daughter, and I’m going to speak seriously to you now. If the King accepts your explanation, I know what I advise you to do.”

She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised.

“What? Not press for revenge on Northumberland’s wife, I suppose.”

“No,” the Earl shook his head. “You won’t wish to hear this, but I shall say it nonetheless. Give up your plan to marry the King.”

Her mouth opened, and her hand flew to her breast, and then stopped at the base of her slender throat. She didn’t believe she had heard him at all.

“I have a feeling,” Wiltshire went on. “Don’t ask me to explain it, for I can’t, but I feel you should draw back. I can give you the practical reasons; the enmity of such a large faction at court, the difficulties of obtaining the divorce—rather the impossibility, for Clement’ll never grant it now, and the King knows it. The chance that one of these intrigues against you will succeed. Not long ago, Suffolk tried and failed; now Northumberland. There’ll be others; we’re bitterly hated. Nan; George and I, and above all, you. Someone will succeed, and you know where that will end. You’ve seen the King turn; he loved Wolsey once, and you know how he served him in the end.”

“Because I made him,” she broke in, but he silenced her.

“On the day he regrets Wolsey, and he may, he’ll remember that you were behind him,” he said quietly. “You say he loves you, Nan. Well, that may be; he leeches, and he’s unsatisfied, I know that; but I don’t think he loves you as he did. There lies your danger, in that and the delay over the marriage. The Pope’s arms are still open; he can be reconciled with Rome and not repeal a single act against the Church, so he has everything to gain and nothing to lose but you, if it comes to the point. And it may come to the point, maybe after a quarrel, when you’ve been fool enough to rant at him like any common goodwife, or when there’s an intrigue that isn’t mistimed or discovered by us first.”

She stared at him, wondering and quivering with anger.

“You say give up? After all I’ve striven for, and suffered and schemed? After holding the King for six years and setting the Pope himself at nothing? Give up, from you?”

She threw back her head and laughed in savage mockery.

“You, who crawled and plotted to advance yourself from the day you were born? Lord Wiltshire, by God, and Keeper of the Privy Seal...rich and important, with the world at your feet and your daughter as the future Queen of England! Give up!” She almost spat the words. “Have you lost your mind, my dear father? What would such a future hold for me!”

“Safety,” he said harshly. “And not only for you but for all of us!”

She laughed harshly. “Ah, now I see it. Now I understand. You’ve no fear for
me
, that I may come to harm. You’ve lined your own coffer by my efforts, you’ve got enough for yourself now, and you don’t like the risk anymore! You want to keep your offices and your honors and persuade me to give up my chance of being Queen. You’re afraid for your own hide, and the devil take me and the years I’ve wasted...The King doesn’t love me! He only leeches...Is that what you say? He may abandon me at any moment because of the Pope or a pack of intriguers? Well, you lie! I know he needs me more than ever; he couldn’t do without me!”

“Your vanity’ll be your death,” he snarled again. In all the years he had never hated her as much as at that moment when she accused him rightly to his face. He was clear-sighted, and he knew in his heart that for some reason he was more afraid of Henry than of any of the factions he had used in argument. Every instinct warned him that Anne’s hold was more tenuous than she or anyone supposed; if it broke, her whole family would follow her into ruin. And the partisans of Catherine and the Princess Mary would have no mercy. If she withdrew now, she could have wealth and a good marriage arranged for her, and he could assume the role of peacemaker to the King and his estranged wife. Catherine would be grateful, and Catherine was not vindictive. She was the only one who pitied Wolsey, once her remorseless enemy, when she heard of his disgrace. And the King liked him, because he had made an art of subservience. He had hoped Anne would listen, and he struck at her furiously in a last attempt.

“You’re not what you were,” he told her. “Go, study your mirror. You’re thin-faced and shrewish and you’ve a mouth like a bear trap. There’s never a gentle word or a sweet smile from you, not for nearly a year past, and you’re not young any more, Madame. You’re past twenty-five, and by God, you look every day of the age! You lash the King with that sharp tongue of yours and think he doesn’t mind it. I’ve seen him redden and look at you in a way that might have warned a wiser woman. Go your own way if you will, but I tell you, don’t count on me to support you when you go too far. You’ve nothing to give the King now but your body, and I swear the time’ll soon come when he sickens of waiting for that!”

She stood up and faced him, quivering. So she was old, and her beauty was gone...was that what he thought? She couldn’t hope to keep the man who’d loved her for six years and sent his wife and daughter into exile for her sake! She was so angry that she choked for breath, and for one mad moment her hand half rose as if to strike him. At the same time she was bitterly afraid and shaken. He believed what he said. He believed she was losing Henry’s love and he believed it so strongly he was prepared to abandon all their hopes at the last minute.

Suddenly she became deadly calm; she straightened her jeweled cap and shook out her skirts and looked up into his pale, furious face.

“I thank you for this, in spite of all your venom, Father, because you’ve shown me what I should do. The King has waited long enough. He’ll marry the mother of his son, and I’ll be Queen of England yet. But I’ll remember your words to me today.”

She brushed past him, and walked quickly out into the glare of the afternoon, her wooden-soled shoes tapping on the curved stone path leading downward from the mount toward the privy garden and the palace.

She sat by her dressing chest for an hour while two tirewomen brushed and scented her black hair. It hung loose down her back, drawn away from her face by two combs set with pearls. She had bathed and rubbed musk-scented oil into her skin, and she was naked under a dress of soft white satin, the sleeves and bodice sewn with seed pearls. She chose a necklace of large pearls with a pendant formed of the initial B. She had worn it for the portrait Holbein painted of her a year before. Her brows were blackened, and she nibbed a red salve into her lips until it colored them and disappeared. The skin was drawn tight across her cheekbones, leaving a faint hollow that enhanced the size and brilliance of her dark eyes and the delicate line of her temples. The candles burning beside the polished metal mirror picked out the dull gleam of the jewels round her narrow throat, and caught the light of diamonds in her ears as she moved. On her left hand she wore Henry’s ring, and a fan of white ostrich feathers with a silver handle lay on the chest. Her bedroom was piled with dresses of every color and material, flung on the bed where they had been discarded one after the other; the shoe chest was open, and one of her women knelt, fitting a white satin slipper onto her foot.

Her father was lying because he hated her, and had lost courage. She didn’t look old or bitter; she had never been more beautiful in her life.

“Clear these things away,” she ordered. “Put everything in order, and be quick! His Grace will soon be here.”

The serving-women left her and began gathering the clothes and folding them away in the great clothespress that stood on one side of the room.

She got up and pointed to the pots and bottles on the chest, and her gold brushes.

“These too; and there’s a slipper in the corner there.”

The bed stood in the center, high and cavernous and piled with silk cushions; she had ordered fresh bedding and sheets, and had the hangings drawn back, and the hand-worked coverlet turned down. Her lawn nightgown lay on a chair and the velvet robe, edged with sable from the neck to the hem, was folded over the chair back, and the tiny slippers set together, Anne turned, and the satin whispered after her as she walked.

“Make a fire that’ll last into the night. Then go.”

When the King came to dine with her he was tired, for Cromwell had followed him from London and he’d spent the fine afternoon shut up in what had once been Wolsey’s closet, studying State papers. An hour before he had been tempted to send word to Anne not to expect him; he would eat with Norreys and Weston and play cards with them afterward, and perhaps hunt with her in the morning. But the mood passed, and he came to her rooms.

He found them full of lights; there were thick wax candles burning by the tapestry walls and lighting the table, shining on some of the gold plate which she had brought with her from York Place. In spite of the heat of that day, the evening was cool, and a log fire burned in the open hearth; some herbs had been thrown on it, which gave a pleasant smell, and he stopped in the doorway, pleased by the elegance and the preparations. She came toward him and curtsied, and then raised her lips for the kiss they always exchanged on meeting.

He caught her shoulders, his fingers tightening as she pressed against him, and her breath was warm.

“By God,” he said quickly, “you’ve no right to look so, Nan. You take my appetite away and give me other longings.”

“I hoped to please you,” she answered gently and stepped out of reach.

“And you’ve succeeded, sweetheart, I’ve spent a weary day.”

“Then you must spend a merry evening,” she returned, “Come, sit down and drink some wine with me before we eat and tell me about the day and its weariness.”

He stretched and yawned, watching her, feeling the warmth of good humor spreading through him, and the itch of desire in his body.

“I’ve a mind for ale instead,” he said. “I’m thirsty, Nan, I could drink a cask of it.”

She smiled. Wine tonight, not ale; wine was stronger.

“Try this, beloved. It’s a fine malmsey I had specially served for you.”

He took the cup to please her and drank it down in one swallow. She refilled it at once, and he forgot about the ale as she knelt beside his chair, her cheek against his arm, and listened while he talked about Cromwell and grumbled that his wrist was stiff from signing papers. She took his right hand in her own and kissed it, and the cup was full again with the strong sweet malmsey. He stroked her hair and wound long strands of it round his thick fingers. He hadn’t felt content and cosseted like this for months, and his old tenderness for her returned, as warm as the wine in his belly. She twisted around to look up at him and shook her head when he offered her a sip out of his cup.

“You always said if I had a trouble I could come to you,” she said, “but it can wait till tomorrow if you’ve borne enough today.”

His large hand stroked her head and he smiled.

“I’ve a broad back, sweet, tell me about it.”

“You remember the time I thought I loved Henry Percy?”

“I do indeed; you wouldn’t look at me, you minx, and you sulked in Hever for months on end,” he chided.

She forbore to remind him that he had sent her there, and said lightly, “I was very young, and I didn’t know the meaning of love, never thinking beyond a few smiles and a kiss. Poor Percy was only a half-grown boy, and I wasn’t much wiser. It was childish folly, Harry, and forgotten by both of us in a matter of days. Now his wife’s resurrecting it, because she wants to be free of him.”

“Resurrecting what? There was nothing between you?”

It was a question, and his tone had altered. She thought how pale his eyes were as she looked into them; the pupils had diminished to pinheads. He had short, sandy eyelashes which were almost invisible at a distance; his brows were fine and arched like a woman’s but so light his face had a curiously bald look as it grew fatter. She knew he was becoming angry because the freckles across his short nose and cheeks looked darker, as his color changed.

“She’s alleging a pre-contract, as grounds for an annulment,” Anne explained. “What she and Northumberland do are no concern of mine, but she’s involving me in something that’s nothing less than treason, just to obtain her own ends. If I was precontracted to marry Percy or any other man, I’d have no right to come to you.”