Doomed Queen Anne (9 page)

The next morning the king and queen left on progress, and I departed for my parents’ estate.

ALTHOUGH I KNEW that I had chosen the right course, I missed the excitement of court and the distractions of the royal progress. Being at Hever always felt like being in exile.

The gardens were overgrown and neglected, and to avoid complete boredom, I engaged several gardeners to work under my direction, trimming back the hedges that had been allowed to grow wild, pruning the roses for a second bloom, and planting beds of pansies with borders of sweet-smelling herbs.

My days were so lacking in diversion that when I received a message from my sister, begging leave to come visit me, I welcomed her. Having few friends among the court ladies, I still counted upon her for gossip and, upon occasion, for companionship.

Mary Carey arrived with a small retinue of her own, including a governess for her daughter, Catherine, a solemn child who seemed to observe the world around her with great seriousness, and a wet nurse for her four-month-old infant son. His name was Henry.

“My daughter named in honor of Queen Catherine, my son in honor of King Henry.” Mary smiled, proudly showing off the cooing, gurgling babe with his fringe of reddish gold hair. She must have guessed what I was thinking:
Is it the king’s son?
Still, I would not ask, nor did she tell me.

But my sister did provide some astonishing news.

“King Henry has gotten the idea of taking a new wife,” she said in a lowered voice, leaning closer.

“One young enough to give him the son he wants so badly. I have this on good authority.”

“But what of the queen?” I asked, greatly surprised. “Is it possible for him simply to put her aside?”

“My husband tells me that the king intends to obtain a decree of nullity from the church. Will learned this from someone highly placed in Cardinal Wolsey s household, who overheard it from the king’s own lips. It is a matter of proving that the marriage was not valid in the first place, and King Henry is now convinced that it was not. Here is his reasoning: Catherine was first married to the king’s elder brother, Prince Arthur. But Arthur died only months after the wedding. Six years later Prince Henry wed Arthur’s widow. Henry was just seventeen, Catherine twenty-four. Within a month of their marriage, they were crowned king and queen of England.”

“I have not heard this story,” I said, still much amazed.

“Catherine married Arthur before you were born,” Mary reminded me. “Now the king is claiming—so I am told by Will—that a certain verse in the Bible states: If a man takes his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing, and they shall remain childless. King Henry believes that he sinned by marrying Catherine, and now God is punishing him by not allowing him a living son.”

“A living
legitimate
son,” I said pointedly.

“You are right,” Mary agreed, ignoring my bold implication. “Henry Fitzroy lives in royal surroundings in the north of England, but he cannot inherit the throne. And so King Henry has decided to have the pope declare his marriage to Catherine invalid, so that he may marry a new wife.”

“Has he such a new wife in mind?” I asked in a carefully neutral tone, determined to conceal the thoughts that were racing through my mind like greyhounds after a stag.

Mary laughed—a little tipsily, I thought, a combination of the spiced wine we’d been drinking and the unusually warm day. “I have no word of that. But I can assure you, Chancellor Wolsey will be the man to guide the king’s choice.”

“Wolsey!” I burst out with disgust.

“You sound like our father,” Mary observed. “He dislikes the cardinal almost as much as you do. But there is nothing to be done about it—Wolsey has been the king’s closest adviser since young Prince Henry became King Henry the Eighth seventeen years ago.”

Then, turning the conversation in a new direction, she said, “Pity, that Tom Wyatt has no biblical excuse to rid himself of
his
shrew of a wife. I think the poet a fine match for you.”

“Pity indeed,” I sighed. “I believe that Tom loves me well, and I do care for him.”
Not the whole truth
, I thought,
but as much as my sister needs to know
.

That night I couldn’t sleep but left my bedchamber to walk alone in the garden beneath a waxing moon. I was thrilled by my sister’s claim that the king intended to put aside his wife and take a new one. As my sister and her children slept, I considered how his decision could affect
me
. Until now I had hoped only to win King Henry’s heartfelt love and devotion. Each night I paced and pondered, and by the time the moon had reached a silvery fullness and Mary Carey had departed, I was determined to win a much bigger prize. With luck and cleverness I would cause the king to fall so deeply in love with me that he would not rest until he possessed me. But not as his mistress—I would become his wife!

And then a nearly overwhelming truth struck me: If I were King Henry’s wife, I would also be his queen.

Queen Anne!

Jubilantly I plucked handfuls of white petals from the full-blooming roses and tossed them high into the silvery moonlight. “Queen Anne! Queen Anne!” I cried. As the petals drifted down around me, I imagined how the cheering throngs would one day call out mv name.

CHAPTER 7: Courtship, 1526-1527

I had weeks to consider the compelling goals to which I aspired—to marry the king and to become his queen. Then, at last, in early September I left Hever for court. My feelings were a jumble of elation and apprehension. Of one thing I was certain: If I wished the king to wholly lose his heart to me, I must keep my own deepest feelings in check. If I allowed myself to love him too ardently, as ardently as I hoped he’d love me, then I risked surrendering the power to reach my goal. This was a difficult lesson in love that I’d learned long ago by observing the love affairs of the French court.

Now my mother and father settled back into their private apartments at Greenwich Palace, but I was again expected to share the wretched chambers of the queen’s maids of honor. Dull as Hever was, I had at least been spared Honor Finch’s ceaseless whines and complaints. But it was clear at once that something had happened, and Lady Honor became easy to ignore.

Immense sadness was written upon Queen Catherine’s plain, aging face. In public King Henry still treated his wife with great respect, the kind of respect one shows one’s mother or a dear sister. He continued to visit her—during the daytime hours—to discuss various matters and to seek her advice. But he no longer came to visit in the evening. Whenever the king entered the queen’s chambers, I remained out of sight. I did not want to arouse the queen’s jealous suspicions as I had at the Shrovetide jousts.

After my return to Greenwich, I waited each night for the king’s summons. There was nothing I could do but wait! Each night when the other maids retired, I stayed up and pretended to read, pleading wakefulness if Honor questioned me. Each morning found me dozing by the dead embers of the fire. A fortnight passed in this manner, and my apprehension grew.
What if he’s changed his mind? What if he’s found someone else?

Then, one night as my Bible lay upon my lap, open to the Psalms, the king’s messenger arrived with a note from the king. Everyone was asleep—or pretending to be so. In gestures I bade the messenger wait. I woke Nell to help me dress quickly in a simple white kirtle that would bespeak my complete surprise at the summons, and therefore my innocence. My hands trembled so that I could not fasten the jewel I always wore, a diamond on a ribbon about my neck, and Nell did it for me. In a trice I was ready to present myself at the king’s most private chamber. “Take this with you,” Nell whispered, handing me my Bible. I paused for a moment to calm myself, and then I hurried to the king’s chamber.

A single candle guttered on the king’s table, where he sat waiting for me. I hesitated for a moment, to let the king drink in the sight of me, shimmering in virginal white. Then I knelt three times, a bit hesitantly this time, apologizing for my poor appearance (it was anything but poor!), protesting that I had been caught unawares by his summons (of course, I had not!). The messenger had vanished. I believed that we were entirely alone.

“Sweetest Anne,” said the king, rising, coming closer.

How tall he is
, I thought as he towered over me. I did observe that he was now considerably heavier than he had been five years earlier, mounted high on his white stallion at the Field of Cloth of Gold. Still,
How strong. How splendid!

“You cannot imagine how much I have missed you these past weeks,” said King Henry. “Every hour without seeing your sweet face seemed like...like an eternity!”

“Your Majesty,” I replied, “you have been in my thoughts as well.” I clutched the Bible to my breast and backed away as he reached out for me. “Oh, my lord,” I protested, trembling a little, for I was, in truth, somewhat frightened.

“Anne!” he cried, “I have been struck by the dart of love! You have made me weak with desire!”

“I can no longer come to you. Your Majesty,” I murmured, my eyes swimming with the tears I summoned. “I will be found out, and my good name will suffer.”

“Then, my dearest Anne,” said the king gently, “I shall come to you,” and he bade me return to my chambers.

THE NEXT DAY my father paid me a visit. I was to be moved out of the maids’ chambers and into a private suite with my mother, “by order of King Henry.” My father was in a jovial mood, fairly beaming with pride. I was not deluded—it was pride in
himself
that my father displayed, pride that even his less-favored daughter had managed to capture the king’s fancy.

But he could not resist lecturing me. “Do whatever it is that His Majesty desires to keep his favor. Do not spoil your chances, whatever you do, by some act of prideful folly.”

“I have no intention of spoiling my chances,” I assured him. “But I believe that the king respects my intention to preserve my virtue.”

“Your virtue!” My father laughed cruelly. “You can play any game you wish, Nan, just as long as you win.”

Even what might have been words of praise from my father ended up poisoned with criticism! Yet much as the harsh words wounded me, I understood that I would need his help.

“I shall need money,” I told him.

“I anticipated as much,” he said, and laid a leather pouch of coins upon my lap. “Buy whatever you need—-jewels, gowns, furs. You have always been good at spending money. Surely there is enough here to satisfy the king’s mistress.”

“I do not intend to be his mistress,” I said coolly.

“Not? Then what is this all about?” I could see the familiar anger flickering in his eyes.

“Have you not heard the rumors. Father? King Henry intends to seek an annulment of his marriage to Queen Catherine and to take a new wife, one who can give him the son he so desires.”

“I have heard it.”

“I shall become King Henry’s wife,” I said calmly. “I will bear him not one son, but many.” My father stared at me, and I rushed on, boldly stating aloud the intent that had only recently come to me: “And I shall become queen!”

“Queen!”
my father sneered. “Marry the king! You have always thought overmuch of yourself, daughter, and I see that has not changed.”

It was plain that he had no confidence in me. But as he turned to leave, he said, “I assume that I shall hear further from you when you have spent every farthing upon your useless quest.” His doubts simply strengthened my resolve to prove him wrong.

IMMEDIATELY I SET about ordering gowns, gloves, slippers, cloaks, hoods, and other items. I impressed upon the silkwomen and embroiderers and glove-makers and furriers the importance of haste, offering them the highest fees in order to have my new wardrobe ready by the Eve of the Feast of the Nativity.

Tom Wyatt continued to play into my plans. One day, as we engaged in some little banter, the poet suddenly grasped a small locket that I wore on a length of lace upon my sleeve and tugged it free. “I fear that you would lose this, madam,” he said. “As I have lost my heart to you, and would hope that you have lost yours as well.” With that he tucked the locket, lace and all, inside his doublet.

“Sir!” I cried, feigning a little shock and some offense, “what use have you for such a bauble!”

“To wear your pretty locket against my heart,” said the poet. “I treasure it as a love token.”

I frowned, but I spoke mildly. “Love token? I have given you no love token, sir. You have taken it from me. My heart does not go with it.”

KING HENRY seized every opportunity to visit my suite which had a private door easily reached from the king’s apartments. Whenever the king arrived, my mother put aside her needlework and tactfully withdrew, leaving us alone and unchaperoned. Sometimes the king came to sup with me, always staying until very late. Every effort was made to keep these visits secret. Even so, by Allhallowtide the whole court was gossiping.

“So,” my sister, Mary, whispered one morning in the chapel when we found ourselves kneeling side by side at Mass, “you have decided to take my advice after all and become the king’s new mistress!”

“Nothing of the sort,” I whispered in reply as we rose for the
Gloria in Excelsis
. “Although the king does continue to flatter me with his kindness.”

“But everyone assumes that you have,” said Mary. “When you are the king’s mistress, you are the center of attention. Enjoy it while you can. From now on every gesture you make, every word you speak, every gown and jewel you wear will be noted. Till now you have been merely a dark-haired maid of no importance. That is past. But beware—you are bound to make enemies...and not just Queen Catherine.”

I gasped at her impudence, but I also recognized that she spoke from experience. I tried to shrug off my sister’s warning words and set my attention upon the words of the Mass, but a chill of foreboding settled over me.

DURING ONE OF HIS nocturnal visits, the king begged me to give him one of the rings I often wore, a circlet of gold set with a pattern of small diamonds. “As a token of your love,” he said.

“As a token of my love,” I affirmed, slipping the ring from my own hand and placing it upon his smallest finger. Now Wyatt had a token, and so did the king.