Anne Boleyn: A Novel (5 page)

The day before the masque, Anne was in the maid of honor’s room alone, dressed in her red costume. She stood in front of a polished steel mirror, the headdress of scarlet points simulating flames, in her hand, the glittering mask sewn below it. She wondered whether he would recognize her quickly; originally, she planned to wear the gold pomander round her waist and then rejected it; the ruse was obvious, and the King loved subtlety. She smiled, thinking of him; he was a challenge that she never tired of meeting. His brilliance challenged hers when he was in a learned mood, and she delighted in trying to match it; his wit was keen and his sense of humor uproarious once it was aroused, and she knew instinctively what made him laugh.

She loved her life at court, apart from her duties with the Queen—God, how could such a woman hope to keep a man of Henry’s make! She loved the admiration of the first personage in the kingdom, and the looks of friends and enemies watching them together; life was exciting and full of some strange promise which she sensed rather than understood. She lived from day to day, playing her extraordinary gamble with the King without knowing either the outcome or how long she could expect to win. But she had played the right moves, she thought triumphantly; had she yielded, he would have taken her for granted in a few weeks. Like this, he was fascinated. In her high spirits, she laughed aloud. God’s death, this was better than living at Hever, better even than Tom Wyatt and all his love.

She put on the headdress and adjusted the elegant little mask; it was a striking costume, and the effect of the scarlet points suggested darting tongues of fire that rose round her head. But she frowned, considering for a moment. She was too well disguised; it might take even Henry a long time to recognize her, and her purpose was to catch and keep his eye in competition with the loveliest women at court. Then slowly she smiled; an idea had formed in the last seconds while she looked at her reflection. It was a breach of etiquette and might well cause trouble with the Queen. But it was worth it. A few moments later she had taken off her costume and was answering Catherine’s bell from the next room.

The great hall at Greenwich had been decorated for the masque; wreaths of holly and ivy hung from the beamed roof, with the mistletoe plant, relic of pagan England, to ward off evil spirits from the feast.

The tall bronze candleholders had been filled with thick wax tapers, as the King complained that the wall sconces smoked and would hide his view of the dancers. A gold and scarlet canopy was stretched above the royal dais, and pikemen of the King’s Guard stood beside the dais in their crimson doublets and polished breastplates. The King’s fool sat on the lowest step, his rattle held like the scepter. In their chairs of state, Henry and his Queen sat side by side waiting for the masque to begin.

The great hall was filled with courtiers of every rank and office; the bright red robes of Cardinal Wolsey and the purple and black of his clerical entourage mingled with the rich colors and jeweled costumes of the great lords and their wives. In the minstrels’ gallery the King’s musicians played softly; one of them prefaced the dancing with a song. Henry listened and smiled. The singer was Rochford’s minstrel, the same whose voice he had admired that night he stayed at Hever, waiting for a second sight of Anne Boleyn.

He had the same feeling at that moment, the same irritable expectancy, as if he were about to see her for the first time, while the minutes lagged like hours. Was that her secret, he wondered, that gift of variety; never to do or say exactly the same things, to change from one mood to the next like quick-silver. To be gay and witty and sophisticated, and suddenly melt into gentle simplicity...From one day to the next, he never knew what to expect, whether she would respond to his mood, or force him to change his to suit her own. He had soon discovered that he even indulged her faults; his critical faculty, so sharp where others were concerned, and so blunt with regard to himself, was equally kind to Anne.

She was inordinately vain; Catherine had remarked on it before she realized the position. The girl spent hours arranging her hair and experimenting with cosmetics; she was casual in her religious duties and incurably light-minded, and at the same time, she had a violent temper and an unbridled will above all. Catherine complained that she was openly restless in the company of women, a trait which the Queen especially disliked. Haughty, worldly, self-willed and vain...vain, yes. But Anne was easily the most striking woman at court, and even if she lacked the milkmaid skin and golden coloring of the acknowledged English beauties, she defied the convention of beauty. She was thin and supple, rather than voluptuous, dark and black-eyed and high-spirited instead of pale and meek, and she went to Henry’s head like a very strong wine.

At times she had surprised him with stable-boy language, a habit he disliked in women, because like most dissolutes, he was a prude at heart, but that too he forgave her.

It was the stimulus of her companionship that held him, and he admitted it; also admitting that his passion had increased under restraint. No woman had ever refused him before. They had all surrendered, and the excitement of pursuit was spoiled by the possession. Within a week or so he had grown used to them and restless—always restless and disappointed. But the more he thought of Anne and wanted her in vain, the more desirable she became. And his uncertainty about her body was matched by uncertainty about her feelings. He loved her, he insisted. This was no passing lust, but he had never wrung the admission from her which fell so easily from the lips of other women. And there was still the sight of Thomas Wyatt to torment him.

The music composed for the masque was beginning; there was a fanfare and a troupe of dancers entered from the other end of the hall.

Earth came toward him first, in a brown costume trailing with green silk leaves and a headdress decorated with real ivy; her four attendants held garlands of artificial flowers and corn, and the group swayed in front of the dais, curtsying.

He stared at the figure in brown for a moment, and then looked away; the face was half hidden by a mask, but he knew by the height and plumpness that it was not Anne. He signaled his pleasure and then Air approached with her maids, and immediately he leaned forward.

She was tall and slim enough to be Anne, and dressed in delicate shades of blue and white, with a headdress of silver stars topped by a crescent moon; a veil of palest blue floated from her shoulders. There was a murmur of admiration from the spectators as Air and her attendants, each symbolizing a planet, curtsied to the King and Queen. He watched the woman in the blue dress as she made way for the third figure in the masque, undecided because she didn’t move like Anne. A look assured him that Water, dressed from head to foot in green and silver, with a silver triton in her hand, was too big-boned and half a head too short. Catherine leaned toward him to ask if he were pleased with the costumes, and he nodded impatiently.

Then, from the farthest part of the hall the last troupe of ladies were coming, four attendants dressed in yellows and orange, with Fire in vivid scarlet. He knew her at once, in spite of the mask which covered her face; there was a general hum of comment as she came nearer, and he heard Catherine draw in her breath. There was no fear of his mistaking her and dancing in ignorance with anyone else, because she had let down her magnificent hair and it hung to her knees.

The Cardinal had turned to watch, his attention called to the scene by one of his secretaries, and from the curtsying figure in the blazing dress, his eyes moved quickly to the King. Henry was on the edge of his chair, leaning forward, and there was a look on his face that made Wolsey ask sharply who the woman was.

“The Queen’s maid, Boleyn,” his secretary answered. “Look at her hair; no one else would have dared.”

“A whore’s trick,” the Cardinal said slowly. Then he shrugged slightly and quieted his fear. The King would tire. He had once said to Wolsey that women were like dishes; all had different flavors and only a fool contented himself with the taste of one.

The masquers danced a ballet, specially composed by the Master of the King’s Musick, and it was spoiled for Henry because Anne’s part ended early, as Fire was extinguished by Water in the course of the mime. She stood at the side, and he could see her laughing and flirting with a little court of men; his eyes almost closed with rage when he saw Wyatt among them, pushing close to her. The length of the ballet seemed interminable as he sat there, unable to leave his chair and scatter her admirers by his presence. At the end he applauded loudly and briefly and stood up; the masque was over and the general dancing began. No one could begin until the King chose a partner and led them out. Catherine had risen and stood beside Henry, waiting to take his arm in accordance with custom, but he turned suddenly to her and bowed.

“His Grace the Duke of Norfolk shall have the honor, Madame.” The next moment Norfolk was standing before her, offering his arm, and the King had left the dais and was hurrying to Anne.

“I’m overwhelmed, Madame,” Norfolk said. He was a tall, ugly man with a savage squint, and Catherine had never felt at ease with him. He was one of that fierce breed of the old English nobility, whose struggles for power had sent many of them to the block. He was also the uncle of Anne Boleyn.

The King and Anne were dancing, and he kept up the required pretense of not knowing her identity. She moved with the grace and lightness of the deer he hunted, turning, curtsying and leaping in the difficult figures of the sarabande. The King, an expert himself, excelled in dancing as he did in sport and he delighted in a partner whose skill complimented his own.

At the end he led her to a corner, where wine and sweetmeats were served from a long table; those standing near moved to a discreet distance so that they could speak without being overheard.

He swallowed a glass of wine and refilled it.

“Now, Mistress, I shall guess who hides under that mask,” he said playfully.

She smiled at him. “Well, Sire, who am I?”

He hesitated and then slapped his side.

“Donna Maria de Feria Gonzalez!” he declared, naming the most gaunt and gloomy of Catherine’s Spanish ladies.

Anne laughed. “No, Sire, and I’m not Friar Pedro, either!” she retorted, naming the Queen’s Confessor.

“I know there’s no monk under your skirts, Mistress Anne,” he said mockingly. “I pierced that disguise when you first entered.”

“I’d prayed God you would,” she responded.

“Why?” he said eagerly.

“What woman in England would want to be recognized by anyone else?” she said.

As usual, it was a flattering answer, but not the one he wanted. She smiled up at him, her eyes bright through the slits in the mask; everyone was watching them. She could see her uncle, Norfolk, staring from the other side of the room where he paid unwilling attendance on the Queen; the squint became exaggerated as he tried to focus. And there was Tom Wyatt, pulling at his beard. She knew that gesture well. He was as much in love with her as ever, and reckless enough to wear the locket she’d given him outside his doublet. She looked at the big bearded King standing over her, his face alight with expectation, and drove the thought of Tom out of her mind. George was right when he warned her that night at Hever; there was no room now for anyone but the King. Sooner or later she would have to give in; her excuses were wearing thin, and the situation was slipping out of her control.

“Come with me, Anne, I’m weary of this,” Henry urged suddenly. “Come, walk in the gallery with me.”

She followed him, knowing, by the way he looked and his haste, what must happen as soon as they were alone. She had held him off before, teasing and serious by turns; he had kissed her once and she’d nearly succumbed to his rough insistence. It would have been so easy and it was what he wanted; she was afraid every time she refused, and then exhilarated when he came back to her, more eager than before.

Outside the hall she stopped; they were alone in the long cold passage, and only the wintry moonlight streamed thinly through the windows overlooking the river.

“We should go back, Sire,” she said. “Think of the scandal...”

“The devil take the scandal,” he retorted. “Can’t the King ever be alone? Give me your hand, Anne.”

Still she hesitated. “The Queen will be angry with me.”

He laughed unpleasantly. “The Queen knows better than to show it if she is. Take off your mask; it’s the penalty for being recognized.”

She was helpless then; he was poised on the line between passion and rage, and his rage was something no woman had ever aroused with impunity.

She put her hand out to him. “Let us walk down to the end of the gallery; I’m hot from dancing, Sire. Then I’ll unmask.”

He stopped her by the far window, turning her so that the soft light fell on her face, and obediently she took off her headdress.

“I saw you in the window at Hever,” he muttered, “standing just so, with your hair all round you. Oh, Anne, Anne...”

He was tremendously strong, and she gave way at once; he had lifted her off her feet without noticing and was kissing her face, her mouth and eyes, and down, reaching for her throat. With a great effort she pulled away from him, gasping. Another moment and he would have pulled her into the window seat.

“I beg you, don’t dishonor me.”

“Dishonor...the King’s love, is that dishonor?”

He set her down, but he still held her shoulders.

“I owe the Queen allegiance,” she said desperately. “How can I betray her, even to please you? Or myself,” she added quickly. He seized on her last words.

“Would it please you? Would it? Say so. Nan, say it would...” She was caught in the trap of her own flattery, but she was quick enough to turn the slip to her advantage.

“More than anything in the world.” She moved farther from him till she stood nearly at arm’s length. “But a light woman isn’t worthy of your love, Sire. And I’m not light in love.

“I serve the Queen,” she continued, her voice a whisper, “and the Queen is your wife...”