Read The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Online
Authors: Robin Maxwell
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (26 page)
Elizabeth stood from her chair and felt weariness drag down her fragile shoulders under the heavy ermine wrap. She blew out the candles one by one and climbed into her vast canopied bed. The hot bricks Kat had placed beneath the covers had long ago gone cold and she curled into a tight ball for warmth. But sleep evaded her as memories of the tortuous road to her own coronation swam before her eyes like a dreamy theatrical play with herself and her family the players.
The year that Mary became pregnant by her beloved Philip had been for Elizabeth one of the lowest times of her life. With a legitimate heir to the throne about to be born all hopes that she would ever be queen were dashed like a gull’s body on a rocky shoreline. She’d been called from her long exile to attend the Queen during her lying in at Greenwich. She knew her presence would give Mary and her councillors much perverse joy. They would gloat watching Elizabeth’s claim to the crown deflating as the Queen’s belly grew rounder by the day.
One might have thought that Mary’s most blessed and fecund days would soften the monarch’s vicious treatment of Protestant heretics, but this had not been the case. From her lying-in chamber the Queen, in a murderous frenzy, ordered the burnings increased, as if she required every infidel in England eradicated before her child was brought into the world.
During that confinement Philip had taken a keen interest in his twenty-one-year-old sister-in-law. They had spent many hours together discussing marriage prospects for Elizabeth, all of which would have added to his already substantial power in Europe, and all of which Elizabeth charmingly but emphatically rejected. She remembered finding the Spanish King broodingly attractive, somewhat shorter than herself and always rather unwell, suffering from a persistent and painful stomach disorder. But he’d taken an obvious delight in this robust girl whose wit and scholarship contrasted with his older wife’s dour piousness. Elizabeth guessed that Philip’s interest in her was at least partly practical. Mary could easily die in childbirth, and if he wanted to keep control of England, he would certainly seek to marry his wife’s sister. But Elizabeth also thought, remembering those days as they waited for Mary to deliver the son the midwives had promised, that Philip had more than a practical interest in her. She was very sure he had fallen in love with her and would have preferred sharing England’s throne with herself.
But Mary’s child would not be born. The long awaited date arrived and passed with no sign of the Queen’s labor. Mary sat for hour upon miserable hour amongst cushions on the floor watching in sadness and horror as her belly began to grow smaller and flatter. And as it deflated, Elizabeth’s power and importance began to grow in inverse proportion. It was clear that Mary had suffered a false pregnancy and that, indeed, the aging queen might be barren after all. Mortified at her failure, Mary had risen from her lying-in chamber and announced her court would be moving to the palace at Oat-lands. Elizabeth had been summarily dismissed and sent back into exile.
On their separate journeys Mary and Elizabeth had ridden out among the people and discovered that Mary’s hold on her subjects had faltered. No one under thirty was a Catholic anymore, and the Queen’s murderous treatment of the heretics had angered the populace. The disappointing false pregnancy was the final blow which, like an executioner’s axe, had finally severed Mary from the hearts of the English. The gaudy procession to Oatlands, Elizabeth was told, had found along the road many somber faces and forced shouts of “God save the Queen.” But Elizabeth’s modest caravan back to Hatfield, where country folk had lined the rutted roads to warmly greet her, had shocked the Princess with the profound truth that the common people of England loved her deeply, saw in her the female embodiment of their beloved Henry VIII, and believed her to be their next queen.
In the following year all that was left was for Mary to die. In the end it was her very womanhood that slew the Queen, her female organs rotting inside her. A self-interested Philip had done his part, convincing Mary in her last excruciating days to name Elizabeth her successor. So when the royal messengers rode into Hatfield with the long awaited news, Elizabeth had been more than ready for her queenship. Ready and eager.
My poor mother, thought Elizabeth. Hardly a soul willingly bared his head in her honor at her spring coronation. On Elizabeth’s own day, in the dead of winter, thousands of caps had been doffed and thrown high in the icy blue air. The people had enveloped her in love that glorious day. The spectacle had surpassed even Elizabeth’s imagination. Streets thronged with celebrants. A thousand horsemen in proud procession, her gold brocaded litter, beloved Robin riding his white stallion behind her, great cries, prayers and good wishes, tender words that came in wave after comforting wave. It had been a time of purest joy.
“God save Your Grace!” they had cried.
“And God save you all!” she had called back to them, her heart bursting. At every stopping point along the procession’s way there had been a small pageant, a recitation spoken, a song sung. And at each Elizabeth had listened carefully and joined in with the celebrants so that by the time she had moved on to the next, she had given each of her subjects a tiny piece of her heart. The promise she had made to a wildly cheering crowd of Londoners at Cheapside, that she would be good to them as ever a queen was to her people, had thrilled her no less than it had her listeners, because Elizabeth saw clearly that it was to her people and her people alone she owed her ascendancy. Without their love, she felt sure, Mary might have been so bold as to see her executed for heresy. Without their love she would never have felt the crown of England on her head.
Elizabeth’s eyelids finally felt the weight of sleep pulling them closed.
That love was what my mother lacked, thought Elizabeth just before sleep took her. Anne was simply misunderstood. Misunderstood to death.
4 June 1533
Diary,
This summer is the sweetest of my life. The long days at Windsor are warm, the air fragrant with cut grass and roses. Henry chose to make no hunting progress this season so he might stay close by my side, tho he rides out often of a day to shoot or hawk, but then returns by nightfall bringing me natural tokens of his affection — bunches of my favorite violets, baskets of juicy blackberries, an owl’s feather, a loveknot of plaited grass woven thro with pussy willows and wilted lilies. The King is most proud of my good belly, and I daresay a woman could be held in no higher esteem than I am by him.
I’ve been given from Katherine’s wardrobe a great quantity of jewels, silver cups with covers, pots, beds and stools. Thro the men of my own Privy Council I may now collect revenues from my many rich estates. And Henry has honored me further as a
femme sole
which allows for me conducting my business without his interference.
Happily we have heard grumblings from neither Rome nor the Emperor Charles. They must comprehend that one tangles with Henry at ones own peril. Francis remains our friend and sent a delightful wedding gift — four mules and a fine litter in the Italian style, all richly carved and gilt, hung with antique tapestries and lined with royal purple velvet cushions filled with eider down. The accompanying letter said he hoped that his gift was worthy of so beautiful a Queen.
My apartments are day and evening scene of every kind of merrymake. Music, dancing, gaming and masques. I have a new fool — a woman, of all things! She does make us laugh with her pranks and clever observations. There are many romances amongst my pretty maids and their gentlemen with their small intrigues and giggling plots. In all I keep a virtuous and peaceful household. All quarrels proscribed, I’ve forbidden my servants frequenting infamous places or keeping lewd company. My ladies, never pampered or allowed licentious liberties, are kept from idleness, sewing for the poor and daily attending divine service. Methinks sometimes I’ve grown overserious, but now with Henry named Supreme Head of Church and State this Queen must set a most Christian example. And, too, God does bless true believers with male children, so I shall conduct my self most morally and obey his laws.
One young courtier does move my heart. He is Mark Smeaton, a fine musician and singer. He is handsome with an honesty and grace that brings my mind to young Percy as he was when I first loved him. Mark pays me far more homage than is due even a sovereign, and it feels to me like a courtly form of love. He sits at my knee, plucks the lute and sings romantic ballads sweet as God’s angel. I should not encourage him, but his devotion does so touch my heart that I often call for his presence in my smallest gatherings. Even Henry loves Master Smeaton, shows him favor as a father might a son.
I am in fine health with high color in my usually sallow cheeks. The boy turns and kicks most heartily, and none dare talk of miscarriage or stillborn babes. But to be truthful, I’ve had some fear of my own death in childbirth, and so sent a message to the Nun of Kent inquiring of her intelligence once again. In her prophesy that told of my Tudor son and his long and prosperous reign she never spoke of me or my life. And so I would call upon her to see again with those terrible eyes my fate as well. For if I were to die, there are some plans I might have in that event arranged, and certain letters writ. But the good sister, so it seems by correspondence from her Abbess, stays in strict seclusion seeing no one, all worldly matters deferred to spiritual ones. Thus my fate will only be revealed in its slow and timely fashion, and I will live with my impatience.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
12 July 1533
Diary,
Finally word from Rome has come and it is very bad. Two days past when Henry rode out to hunt I felt uneasy. Once gone I worried he might be in danger and my fears prophetic. I swear that since this pregnancy I have another sense past sight and hearing, a kind of knowing without reason. So Henry rode out and when night fell he did not return, but neither did I feel him ill or injured. As I was being put to bed the Earl of Shrewsbury arrived to say that having ridden farther than expected, his Majesty would stay the night at Buckdon Lodge, hunt another day, returning after that. A cold thrill ran thro me and I asked the man if the King was well, and if his hunt had been successful. The King was very well in deed, replied Shrewsbury, and as for his accomplishments, the stags had been elusive and he had as yet caught nothing. I slept, tho not soundly and passed the following day in a strange state.
That night the King returned with several men in a loud and jolly humor. But when he came to my apartments and with smiles and great embraces asked after me and our son, I felt unspoken pain, illness of ease. I pressed him once and he claimed that he was only tired from the distance ridden. But I bade him sit, put my hands to his temples to stroke his brow and pressed him again, but carefully. He let out one long sigh which collapsed his large body into a sagging mass. He made to speak but no words came. His great ringed hand covered his eyes and with a dull voice he spoke my name.
“Anne … I have not been hunting.”
“Where have you been?”
“At Guildford with the men of my Privy Council. I did not wish to worry you, sweetheart, but truth is we have heard from Clement on the matter of my divorce.”
“He will not grant it?”
“Worse. He has annulled our marriage and declared all issue from your body illegitimate. If I do not separate at once from you and reinstate Katherine by September … I am excommunicated. Archbishop Cranmer too.” Another sigh escaped him and he seemed suddenly small.
I knew that I should make my self smaller still, so I knelt at Henry’s feet. When I spoke, the words echoed in my head as tho it were a hollow shell.
“Were we not expecting as much, Henry?”
“We were, of course we were. But knowing a great storm is on its way does not blunt the damage it does when finally it arrives. Fields and crops are still flooded, trees still uprooted, beaches washed away, people left dead.” He shook his head, a confused man. “I was not expecting to feel so … empty. The Catholic Church has been mother to me for all my life. I have been a most faithful son, and it has given me great succor.”
With this I could not argue, and I knew it unwise to speak harshly of a man’s mother to him, even if he had spoken harshly first, so I said nothing.
“Now the ungrateful son will cut off his mother’s head and replace it with his own.” He looked at me with desperate eyes. “She left me no choice, Anne, she left me no choice!”
I gently took his hands. “Listen to me. Some mothers refuse to let their sons grow to manhood and assume their Godgiven rights. And Henry, as King of England you have ancient and sovereign rights. If she will not let you take them freely, you must take them by force. For the good of England!”
He was nodding silently, in uncomfortable agreement.
“Is there nothing can be done?” I asked.
“My canon scholars suggest going over Clements head, appealing to a general council. But this would just delay the judgement.”
“Could not Francis help you? He has the Pope’s ear. And what does Secretary Cromwell say?”
Henry laughed coldly. “He says the same as you do about my rights as King coming first before the will of the Church. But sometimes I wonder at the man. I think he has no fear of God in him.”
“I think Master Cromwell fears God as we all do, Henry. He simply does not fear the Church. And in this I believe he is wise.”
Henry smiled a strange smile and touched my cheek gently. “My Lutheran wife. She has stolen me from my mother, lured me away with many promises greater than are in Heaven.”
My body shivered when he said that, for I’d always believed ‘twas I who was stolen. But I kept my counsel and did not contradict him, for I knew I had made a promise whose fulfillment was worth the loss of the Mother Church. Our son. His little Prince. And the unbroken succession of great Tudor Kings.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
5 August 1533
Diary,
I am betrayed most foul, and my betrayer is Henry. So unexpected, this miserable deed, for my husband had been so kind and recently sent to my apartments in Greenwich where I would soon hie for my lying in, a splendid bed of state, picked for me by him from his treasure house, all hung with crimson satin, fringed with gold. And on behalf of me, to Katherine’s great annoyance, he asked from her that some linen be surrendered to me — one very rich triumphal cloth from Spain which had swaddled all the royal babes in their baptism.
But on Wednesday last, whispered gossip found my ear of Henrys escapades with Elizabeth Carew, my own waiting lady, a girl of great beauty but little mind. Evil intentioned lies, I thought, and cleverly timed with me ponderously heavy and wretched, my usual razor tongue filed smooth by approaching maternity. It seemed not possible, for Henry had possessed my self, body and soul, for not yet one year. One short year after so many, fighting side by side like soldiers in a great crusade.
But when at Sunday mass thro muffled bells and rustling taffeta, I chanced to hear it whispered how many nobles — my enemies by name — were assisting that affair, it dawned suddenly as truth to me. I knew it meant nothing to my high position, for I am secure, the crown firm upon my head. His was conduct neither wrong nor even remarkable by royal standards. But still the thought of Henry’s passion spent on someone not my self withered the new and fragile love I bore for him. All those years, pain, struggle squandered in the arms of some artless girl.
I strode to Henry’s chambers, strode as well as one grotesquely bloated, face and belly, can and flew at him in reckless rage. “You whoring swine!” was what I cried when I slapped his cheek which came up hot and angry red. He was stunned, my faithless lover, husband, King. He looked at me with deadly calm, but his eyes told the truth of ugly rumors, and my own eyes stung then with acid tears.
“Where is the sweet and tender man who promised everlasting adoration, he who signed his letters ‘Henry seeks no other’?!” I made much of turning this way and that as if to search for such a man. “Where is he then, for I see only a beastly, two faced traitor here!”
Henry’s gaze, returned with such contempt, surprised my self, for I expected some measure of guilty remorse. Instead he fixed me with a steady stare and icy cold reply. “You will shut your eyes, sweetheart, and endure as those better than your self have done. You ought to know that I can at any time lower you as much as I have raised you.” He touched his reddened cheek, then put his giant hand around my throat. Gently, dangerously he held it so. I scarcely breathed. “Queen Anne,” he whispered I thought contemptuously, and dropped his hand. “Go.”
I stood my stubborn ground and met his eye. “I’ll go, Henry, but know that you have grievously offended your faithful wife, mother of your son.” I turned and proudly quit his chambers for my own where I have nursed my private grief. For there is no one save you, Diary, who knows the fathomed depth of this betrayal. I am quite alone.
We have not spoke now for several days, I to Henry, or he to me. The child kicks hard against my belly and in this pain I find solace, for if the Kings love is gone, this tiny child beneath my heart will remain a golden cord between His Majesty and me — shining, unbreakable and forever.
Yours faithfully,
Anne