Brief Gaudy Hour: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (27 page)

“Lovely, lovely,” murmured Anne, when the last sweet note had died away. “Now sing the one you made specially for me, Harry.” For the first time the family name slipped out, the name which he liked to be called by, but which she never used except for her first redheaded lover. She lay back resting in her chair. “Just for a little while, dear God, let me enjoy the passing moment, as other women may, without bestirring my wits to profit by it,” she prayed.

“As the holly groweth green and never changed hue

So I am—ever hath been—unto my lady true

From all other only to her I me betake

Who hath my heart truly, be sure, and ever shall”

sang Henry, glad to do her bidding. And this time, because he sang for her alone, even Will Somers did not dare to embellish the harmony.

Keeping oneself for one only. If only life could have been like that, instead of calculating one’s caresses and slowly selling one’s body! Anne sat with closed eyes, feeling the hot tears scald beneath her lashes. It must be just because she really
was
tired, because those stiff-necked Londoners had shown their resentment at her assuming one of Katherine’s queenly duties. But why look weakly back when success was hardening in her grasp? The future was going to be so splendid that all other women would envy her.

She was aware of the applause and of Henry’s hand warm on hers. “It is your turn now, if you are rested,” he was urging. And then, quite gently, with a sort of pleased wonder, “Why, sweetheart, you are crying!”

Anne opened her eyes and smiled at him, blinking away her tears. Let him think they were for him, if it gave him any pleasure! “Your Grace knows that I cannot compete in the making of verses—only with my voice,” she answered, dragging her mind back to the necessity of juggling with the present. “But a while ago I read some words that haunt me with their beauty. Verses which are worthy of your skill. Could you set them to music for me, Henry?”

He grinned down at her with humourous indulgence. “To please you, I make no doubt I could, were I permitted to know them.”

Anne sat up, narrowing her eyes in apparent effort. “‘
Set me a seal upon thine heart, for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave.’
”

“Go on!” he bade her.

“‘Rise up, my love, my fair one. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing birds is come.’
”

Henry clapped his thigh. “Why, this would make a marvellous part song,” he exclaimed. “There is a young tenor, Mark Smeaton, in the choir at Windsor who could take those lines about the singing birds and flowers. How does it go on?”

“‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is sweeter than wine, I am my beloved’s. His hair is as the most fine gold, and his desire—his desire—’
,” floundered Anne, with a convincing show of mortification. “Alas! I cannot now remember.”

He got up briskly, twirling away the rush-topped stool with an impatient hand. “But you
must
remember!”

Anne spread raised palms in a little French gesture, expressive of despair.

“At least you must know who wrote it?” he persisted, pacing about before the fire.

“A king.”

“Ah!”

“I told you the lines were worthy of your Grace’s genius,” she smiled at him.

“Which king?” He swung round upon her suddenly in an absurd spurt of jealousy. “Not Francis?”

In spite of her concentration upon diplomacy, Anne laughed outright. “No, not Francis,” she assured him. “Someone who was dead and gone before ever you set eyes on me. King Solomon.”

Henry came and stared down at her with puzzled seriousness. “Then they must be in the Bible,” he deduced.

“Yes, the Bible,” she admitted.

“But they are about a love like ours. And the Holy Scriptures are about God.”

‘If your Grace doubts me, you could read the translation for yourself.”

“I will send to Tyndale for one.” And at the bare mention of the daring printer’s name there came sudden metamorphosis from man to monarch against which she must always school her courage. “There is no need to do that,” she said, without apparent effort. “Cardinal Wolsey has one. In his house a few yards down the Strand.”

Before the words were well past her lips she was aware of her equerry’s sudden tenseness and of the sharply held breath of Margaret and Druscilla. And of Henry’s slow surprise.

“Wolsey?” he scowled. “But he, of all men, disapproves of the English version.”

“Nevertheless, I know that he has one.” Anne rose from her chair with enticing grace, and stood before him so that her eyes compelled him. Just so had the watching Margaret seen their Kentish herdsmen master dangerous blood stock. “I pray you, Henry, let us not spoil our happy evening for lack of it. Send for it now. Send Zouch, my equerry. He will, I know, prove a swift and eager runner.” For the briefest instant her glance shifted mischievously beneath guarded lashes to the young man in question, making him her slave for life. “So that I may refresh my memory and your Grace devise the tune.”

Henry found himself in a quandary. “Hush, Nan! Speak not so openly of having read it. The matter is dangerous,” he warned uncomfortably. Greatly as he desired to read those words, he had, ostensibly at least, always upheld the Cardinal against these new Lutheran tendencies. “Parts of the Gospels and the Prophets I have already read,” he admitted, blustering a little because he would not be outdone in the matter of literature by a woman. “But to borrow the Cardinal’s English version on so frivolous a pretext—”

Anne’s brain worked twice as quickly as his. “You could write it as an anthem,” she coaxed on a ripple of warm laughter. “There is nothing frivolous about an anthem.” Already she was easing the signet ring from his little finger, her touch less of a theft than a caress. “Here, Zouch!” she was calling over her shoulder to that grinning young dog of an equerry. “Take the King’s ring to milord Cardinal. And listen attentively to what his Grace wishes to say.”

Not even his sister, Mary Tudor, could have managed him more effectively, since in the end he imagined it was he who gave the order. And he was allowed no time for considered thought. Almost immediately the young man was speeding gratefully on his errand to York House, and Anne was improving the occasion. Still fondling Henry’s hand, she drew him down beside her. “While we are waiting, shall I entertain your Grace with an amusing story of how milord Cardinal stole the book?” she offered.

“
Stole
it?”

“Yes. From one you love.”

“From one I love?”

“At least, you have given me good reason to suppose so.”

“Nan, what things you say!”

Beguiled by her sparkling eyes, he drew her closer, and seeing that their attendants had tactfully withdrawn, she told him about the missing Bible, with disarming candour. Never once did she stress her own danger, or her brother’s. She told the story simply, as the folly of two lovers to whom she had been kind.

“It was like my own darling to forgive them,” he commended, kissing her. “But if you are to be mistress in your own household, you must enforce more discipline.”

Anne had her answer ready. “Was not I myself once forgiven in similar circumstances, when my cousin Thomas filched my pomander chain, and used it indiscreetly? So that I had grateful cause to learn magnanimity at its source?”

Henry pinched her cheek and chuckled, feeling himself a god.

“And well I remember,” she added, “how gently your Grace chided me for some inadvertent word which betrayed our love to London gossip. And, taking the words to heart, I had it in mind to safeguard us both from the Cardinal’s indiscretion. For if it were his intention to make an example of my household, as I fear it was, what unwelcome attention it would indeed have given to your Grace’s private affairs.”

Henry frowned with annoyance. “I had given Wolsey credit for more sense!” he growled, grudgingly allowing himself to be jolted by a new aspect of the case. And, turning to take the great Bible, he opened it before them all and began to read.

All winter the divorce proceedings dragged on. Henry Tudor and Katherine’s nephew, Charles of Spain, entreated, cajoled and even threatened the distracted Pope, who could ill afford to offend either of them. Wolsey professed himself diligent in his master’s behalf, while still finessing with France. Anne found herself the figurehead of a party which opposed both the power of Rome and the dominance of Wolsey, and represented the personal ambitions of her father, her uncle, and the Duke of Suffolk.

And through it all Katherine of Aragon remained adamant.

Nothing would persuade her to make things easy for Henry or for herself. Although it was years since she had cohabited with him, she would not save herself distress and indignity by retiring, with royal honours, into a convent. Henry Tudor’s wife she was, and his wife she would remain. And never would she acknowledge any other woman as Queen of England. Regally, without even acknowledging Anne’s existence, she had taken her place beside him in public until he actually deserted her. And now, lonely at Greenwich, she still fought singlehanded for her daughter’s legitimacy, consulting with the Spanish ambassador, sending an unending spate of letters to Spain and Rome, and even managing to obtain a copy of the Papal brief which had been sent to her parents authorizing her second marriage.

But finally, against her wishes, Pope Clement had been persuaded to send another Legate to support Wolsey and decide the matter in England.

Campeggio, the Italian Legate, was a gouty old man, quite lacking in the outer graces of his English colleague. First he had produced a formidable array of carefully prepared forensic arguments in an effort to dissuade Henry from the whole business, only to find that the King of England knew more about the subject than most of his lawyers. Then he flattered Katherine into using him as her Confessor, and gained nothing more helpful than her solemn assurance that she had slept only seven nights with young, ailing Arthur Tudor and that, in spite of the lad’s boastful talk, she had kept her virginity. And, after that, he even went so far as to suggest that, since Henry professed to be clamouring for divorce mainly because he had no legitimate son to succeed him, the difficulty might be solved by marrying his daughter Mary to his illegitimate son. Fitzroy!

Finally, finding it impossible to shelve the dispute, he roused himself from his various ailments sufficiently to hold a Legatine court in London. The great hall of the Blackfriars was packed with bishops and lawyers, over whom he and Wolsey presided. Katherine herself swept into court. And when the herald called “Henry, King of England” and the Tudor was forced to face her, he managed to fulfil his role with dignity. Averring lifelong affection and admiration for his wife, he dwelt upon her virtues and swore that nothing but fear of living sinfully and anxiety for the succession could make him seek to divorce her.

“And how did the Queen answer?” Anne Boleyn asked eagerly. the moment the King’s party was returned from Blackfriars. She had drawn Hal Norreys apart; for Henry himself, looking neither to the right nor to the left, had gone straight to his private apartments, and she dared not approach him.

“For a few moments she said nothing. Her Grace was obviously deeply moved,” answered Norreys.

“He told me what he intended to say—it was all sanctimonious policy, of course,” interrupted Anne, impatiently.

But clearly Norreys had been deeply moved, too. “She got up and crossed the court. With difficulty, because of her thickening infirmity. Somehow that seemed to make it all the more dignified. She was all in black, some trailing sort of stuff that rustled as she walked. Every eye was upon her.” He broke off, seemingly lost in mental contemplation of the extraordinary scene.

“And then?” prompted Anne.

“And then she went down on her knees before him. Her English was all broken up with little Spanish expressions, the way it is when she is distressed. And she was crying. She was speaking to him personally, but the court was so still we could hear every word. About all their years of happy married love, their mutual tolerance. I think she must have been thinking about Lady Blount and your—your sister, and how she forgave him. She reminded him of her obedience and devotion, and of the Princess Mary in whom they had such mutual joy. Once she spoke about their little son whom God had taken. I swear there were tears in his eyes, too.”

Eaten by shame, Anne hardened her heart. “Ah, perfidious one!” she muttered, in French.

“And then the Queen seemed to remember that she was not alone with her husband, but in a court of law. She got up and looked him straight in the eyes and, raising her voice, called upon God to witness that he knew her to have been virgin when he took her.”

Norreys moved to the window and stood looking out at the grey, hurrying river, almost as if he had forgotten he was not alone. He was young and generous, and his own mother was about the Queen’s age. To get any more out of him Anne had to follow him and shake him by the arm. “And the King—what did the King say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing! You mean, he didn’t use this heaven-sent chance to deny it before them all?”

Norreys turned and looked at her, seeing her for the first time as strained and hard. “Perhaps he could not,” he suggested.

Anne gave a little indecisive moan and let her fingers drop from his sleeve. “But he must have said
something—done
something.”

“No one did anything except the Queen. She beckoned to one of her gentlemen, and leaned upon his arm, and walked away.”

“And no one stopped her?”

“The King tried to. I think he must have realized that all Christendom would condemn him if he allowed judgment to be passed against her, and she not there. He bade the usher recall her. She must have heard quite distinctly what he said. But she never even looked back. She, who had never in her life disobeyed him or accorded him anything but courtesy! ‘Go on, it is of no consequence,’ she said casually to the man whose arm she leaned on. ‘This is no impartial court to me.’ And in that moment she made us remember, suddenly, that she was no subject, but a daughter of Imperial Spain. Unhurriedly, with her ladies and her two bishops following, and no man daring to detain her, she walked towards those great doors that lead out into Bridewell Palace. And the doors closed behind her. It was as if she were walking, unbeaten, out of his life.” Ever since he was a page, Hal Norreys had lived close to the King, admiring his prowess and enjoying his kindly favour. But he was shaken out of all formal discretion. He and Anne moved within the same circle of friends and he had to say what he thought. “Nan, I am sure that she still loves him,” he assured her, out of the complication of his own feelings, “but when she appealed to him about a thing like that and he didn’t answer, I think, for the first time, she
despised
him.”