Doomed Queen Anne (10 page)

But through all of our many evenings together, King Henry did not say a word of an impending annulment of his marriage. I was resolved that I would not follow in my sister’s footsteps and become the king’s mistress, but the situation was a dangerous one: If I yielded I would certainly be discarded, as Mary and Bessie had been, but if I continued to refuse him, I risked losing him to someone else—perhaps someone of Wolsey’s choosing. And I had to pretend that I knew nothing of his intention to seek an annulment. I slept poorly and what little I managed to eat lay uneasily upon my stomach. And there was no one in whom I could confide my darkest fears, or my fondest hopes. Most of the maids spoke to me with honeyed words, but I thought them false. Lady Honor and Lady Constance clearly despised me, pointedly ignoring me when I was present, whispering to the others when they didn’t know I was nearby: “Why does Anne seem always to dress in black?” I overheard one of the maids, Lady Winifred, ask of Honor.

“Perhaps because she is a crow!” Honor replied, to the amusement of her listeners.
“Caw! Caw!”

I thought of seeking my mother’s counsel, but, although she sometimes advised me on matters of dress and deportment, our hearts were never close. She seemed to enjoy the notion that the second of her daughters had found favor in the king’s eyes, but what this might mean in terms of my future was not mentioned.

I did not trust my sister; we had exchanged places, and I believed that she was now jealous of me, as I had once been of her. Mary, I was certain, would simply laugh at me and tell me that I was foolish not to be content with what I had. Fond as I was of Nell, she was but a servant, after all, and perhaps not above sharing secrets with her sister, who served another of the queen’s ladies.

The king yearned for me, and yet I was all alone and felt despised.

NEVER HAD THERE BEEN such a Yuletide celebration as the one at the end of 1526. I appeared in my new finery, and at each banquet I danced often with the king. Every eye was upon us.

“Dear lady,” King Henry murmured during a gavotte, “if only I could persuade you to be my partner in even more dances! There is no one like you in all this world!”

“Ah, sir, if only!” I replied, my smile sweetly virtuous, my tone of voice hinting at forbidden pleasures.

Sometimes I danced with Tom Wyatt. Tom had never ceased to pay me court. Tom himself described to me what happened on the day after New Year’s when he was playing bowls with King Henry and several of the king’s friends. A disagreement arose as to whose bowl had come closest to the jack.

“I drew out the length of lace I always wear about my neck,” said Tom, “making sure that the king noticed the jewel hanging upon it—your jewel, dear lady And I offered to use this as a means to measure the distance. I confess that I could not resist the impulse!”

“Surely, sir, you did no such thing!” I exclaimed, feigning displeasure, but in truth I was well pleased. “Did the king remark upon it?” I asked.

“He did. King Henry recognized it at once as belonging to you. Immediately his mood turned foul. He left the game, muttering oaths. Brandon and the others had no little sport with me after the king had stormed off.”

I begged Tom’s pardon for any trouble caused him in his friendship with the king, but my words were insincere. The king was jealous, just as I had wished!

TWELFTH NIGHT was the last great feast, the climax of the Yuletide season. Wearing a dramatic new gown of black silk, opening upon a white damask petticoat and trimmed with fur, I knew that I had never looked more beautiful. Neither king nor poet could take his eyes off me. For the occasion the king had chosen Tom Wyatt as the Lord of Misrule, whose Lady for the evening would be the one who found the single dried pea baked in the spice cake. Abetted by Nell, who had begged a handful from one of the cooks, I contrived to discover a pea in my slice when the cake was served.

“I am she!” I cried, producing a pea. No one dared dispute my claim, and the Lord of Misrule declared me his lady.

The king was plainly irritated by the attention paid me by Tom, who begged permission to sing a song he had composed.

“Get on with it then,” King Henry growled. But no sooner had Tom knelt at my feet with his lute and begun to sing, than the king interrupted. “Enough of this melancholy caterwauling!” he bellowed. “By the king’s order, this banquet is at an end!”

The king stalked out, followed dutifully by the queen and their courtiers. Only Princess Mary lingered behind the rest, fixing me with a malevolent stare that I pretended not to notice.

Tom Wyatt took my hand and escorted me from the Great Hall.

“And now I bid you farewell, dearest lady,” Tom said, keeping my hand in his.

“Do you not mean ‘Good night’?” I asked.

“No, madam; I mean farewell. I leave on the morrow for Italy.”

“But you are not gone for long, surely?” I said. “So that you do not forget me.”

“Forget you, Lady Anne? Never.”

Within days I learned that Tom Wyatt had left for Rome on a diplomatic errand. I guessed the real reason for his leaving: Tom truly loved me, and his departure from England was a sign to the king that he was relinquishing all claims upon my heart.

That winter my loneliness grew. Except for my time with the king, I was always alone among enemies. The maids glowered and whispered among themselves whenever I passed by.
Caw! Caw!
Lady Honor was plainly so jealous that she could scarcely bear to be in the same chamber with me.

“Just look at the sour faces on Lady Honor and Lady Constance!” Nell hissed as she laced up my gown with the French sleeves in the new style I had ordered. “Like they was tasting green apples. And not just them, madam. Everyone’s talking!”

The queen’s ladies always turned against whoever was chosen by His Majesty. As they now had turned against me.

At the same time, the king began to press harder for me to become his mistress. He became quite open and blunt about his desires, and it was becoming more difficult to refuse him.

“I am a man. Lady Anne! And like other men, I have my appetites that must be satisfied!”

“Your Majesty,” I always replied, “you know that you have my deepest affection. But you ask of me what no woman can yield without the loss of her virtue and her self-respect. And, my lord, the loss of your respect as well.” Then I would lower my eyes and clasp my hands beseechingly

“No, my love!” the king protested. “Nothing will ever cause me to lose respect for you! I solemnly swear it!”

But such avowals would not persuade me to yield. I would not be swept off my feet and lose every chance to have what I wanted most.

And then one evening everything changed. The great King Henry, the most powerful man in all of England, took my hands in both of his. “Dearest Anne! I love you with all my heart and soul!” he cried. “My deepest desire is to make you mine for-ever!

These were words I yearned to hear. Yet in his declaration I heard no proposal of marriage, no mention of an annulment of his present marriage, without which there could be no new marriage to me. I had begun to despair that
my
deepest desires—to be his wife and his queen—might go unmet.

“My lord,” I replied carefully. “Unworthy as I am, you honor me with your deep affection.”

“Then be mine, as I am yours!”

“But you know that I cannot, my lord, as much as I may wish it.” Honest tears gathered in my eyes, and I could not stop them from spilling over. The king embraced me.

King Henry’s voice seemed choked with regret as he finally explained his unhappy predicament. “Before God, Anne, it is my belief that my marriage to the queen is not now and has never been valid. It was an error that I humbly and sincerely regret and now must do whatever is necessary to correct. I have sinned against God’s law, and I am being punished for it. God has given me no sons.”

At last he had brought up the subject of his in-valid marriage! “Oh, my poor friend,” I murmured, leaning against his broad chest as my tears flowed freely, “is there no solution?”

Still holding me close, the king explained that for some time he had been consulting with the theologians of his court. “Only the pope in Rome has the power to dissolve this marriage,” said the king. “But it must be done.” Abruptly he released me and began to pace restlessly about his chamber, pounding his fist into his palm. “It must be done! It must!”

THROUGHOUT THE MONTHS that followed, talk of the annulment never failed to excite the king. At times he was jubilant, certain that the theologians he had charged with presenting his case would persuade the pope. At other times King Henry gave way to dejection. Mostly, though, he was impatient.

I recognized that my position was very dangerous. There was still no marriage proposal, and I worried that Chancellor Wolsey might already be busily promoting some other royal match. With one slight miscalculation, or one stroke of ill luck, everything could come to ruin.

CHAPTER 8: George, 1527

As it happened, the person now closest to me was my brother, George. No longer the spoiled little boy who’d shouted and stamped his foot, he was now a man of eighteen, newly married to Jane Parker, a lady with an imperious air who made clear her disdain for me.

As my father’s fortunes improved, so had my brother’s. George had risen from the lowly position of page to become one of the king’s cupbearers. His duty was to hold the golden goblet to the king’s mouth when he dined, taking care that no drops of wine fell upon the king’s rich clothing. Being so often close to the king’s lips, he heard much of what the king had to say. Charming and well made, George had also earned a name as a poet, and now that Tom Wyatt was gone, George’s verses were in even greater demand. Late in January of 1527, I invited him to call upon me in private.

“So,” said my brother, taking his ease in my chamber and calling for a flagon of ale, “you have caught the king’s fancy, as our sister once did. You are the talk of the court. Nan.”

“True enough that I have caught the king’s fancy,” I replied, “but not as our sister did.”

“Meaning—?”

“Meaning that I have refused to become his mistress.”

“Refused to become the king’s mistress? What then. Nan?”

I hesitated. “You must speak of this to no one,” I said, thinking of his wife, whom I did not trust.

“You have my solemn word,” he said, raising his hand and regarding me now with great seriousness.

I leaned close to him. “I intend to become the king’s wife.”

“His
wife?
” George laughed heartily, displaying his strong white teeth. “You would be the king’s
wife
?”

“If it be God’s will and the king’s pleasure, I shall marry King Henry.”

“I know naught of God’s will, but I can tell you this much: King Henry is in love. He talks of you constantly and of how he has been struck by the dart of love. You hold his heart in your own two hands.”

“Much as did our sister.”

“The king was entranced by our sister’s body” said George crudely. “It is your whole person that entrances him. But
marriage
? That is another thing entirely. Ambitious as our father may be, we are not highborn. And there is the unavoidable fact that the king already has a wife.”

“But King Henry intends to have his marriage nullified.”

George nodded. “I have heard as much. Apparently, he views it as a matter of conscience. There is a problem, though—I have heard him speak of it.”

“And that is—?” I waited anxiously to hear my brother’s reply.

“The pope, who must grant the decree of nullity, was appointed by Emperor Charles. The emperor is Catherine’s nephew and will not allow his aunt to be put aside easily. The queen will certainly oppose the annulment, and the emperor will take up her cause with the pope. This will not be a simple thing, dear sister.”

“But the king loves me, does he not? He will triumph in the end, will he not?”

“Yes, Nan, the king loves you. And he is not used to being refused. I know that he will do everything in his power to get what he wants. And he plainly wants you.”

“Then I shall be queen!” I said.

“Queen?” George stared at me, astounded. “Your ambition knows no bounds! Would you not be content simply to be the king’s wife and consort?”

“No,” I said. “I would be queen.”

I waited to see if he would sneer at me as our father had. But George raised his flagon in a toast. “Then I drink to the future Queen Anne,” he said, smiling broadly, “for that will make me the king’s brother-in-law.”

THE ENTIRE COURT was engaged in a frenzy of preparation for a festive event to take place in April: the betrothal of young Princess Mary to François, king of France. This was the same François of whose court I had been a member, and the same François whose wife. Queen Claude, I had once served. But Claude had died, and François was now ready to take a new wife. Evidently King Henry had decided that betrothing his daughter to the French monarch would be to his advantage.

Such events were months in the planning. I ordered several new gowns, and the talk among Queen Catherine’s ladies was of nothing but the coming celebration. There was gossip that the princess was anything but pleased by the marriage arrangements made for her by her father, and she had treated her seamstresses to more than one royal outburst. François was thirty-three years old, three years younger than King

Henry, but I’m sure Princess Mary, just eleven, thought of him as hopelessly old and drooling, like her aunt Mary Brandon’s French king.

It was a spring of violent storms, and the arrival of the French entourage was delayed for three weeks until the crossing from Calais could be made safely. When at last the skies cleared and the seas calmed, word was received that François and his great retinue of courtiers and servants had landed in Dover. Escorted by a band of knights and henchmen displaying the Tudor colors, the visitors made their way to Greenwich, where Princess Mary and her sour-faced governess, the countess of Salisbury, had been waiting grumpily for over a month.

On the feast day honoring Saint George, patron saint of England, King Henry and Queen Catherine gave a great banquet to welcome the French. Although five years had passed since I’d left his court and returned to England, François singled me out for special greetings. As he bent over my hand, François murmured in French, “And how fares your sister, Mademoiselle Marie?”