The Boleyn Wife Page 9

  Before us all, King Henry knelt at her feet and said, “I promise this is the last Christmas you shall ever spend apart from me. Henceforth, that shall be Catherine’s fate!”

  While he was instructing the musicians, Anne rolled her eyes and said, sotto voce, “To spend a Christmas apart from Henry; that is a fate worse than death!”

  George and Brereton were hard put to stifle their laughter, Norris choked on his wine, and Weston rolled on the floor howling with glee, thus sparking the King’s curiosity.

  “He is laughing at me, Your Grace, for being a softhearted, sentimental female,” Anne deftly explained.

  “Really, darling?” Henry gathered her in his arms, his plump, pink fingers roving over the back of her sable-trimmed scarlet satin gown, its color red as holly berries, as if they longed to undo the laces. “What did you say?”

  “That I almost pity Catherine, for to be exiled from your affection, especially at Christmas, is a fate worse than death.”

  “Aye, sweetheart, but it is a fate you will never suffer!” Henry promised. “Eternal and evergreen shall ever be my love for you. And to prove it, I have written this song for you.”

  He bade us all be seated. Then, standing at the center of the room, the emeralds and diamonds upon his cloth-of-silver and green velvet doublet flashing in the candlelight, he signaled the musicians, and, in a fine tenor voice, began to sing:

  “Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.

  Though winter blasts blow never so high,

  Green groweth the holly.

  As the holly groweth green

  And never changes hue,

  So I am, and ever hath been,

  Unto my lady true.

  As the holly groweth green,

  With ivy all alone

  When flowers cannot be seen

  And greenwood leaves be gone.

  Now unto my lady

  Promise to her I make:

  From all others only

  To her I me betake.

  Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.

  Though winter blasts blow never so high,

  Green groweth the holly.”

  As he sang his eyes never once left Anne’s face.

  Anne sat very still, seemingly lost in thought; she was by this time well accustomed to inspiring poetry and songs. Thomas Wyatt had already made her famous. “Noli Me Tangere (Touch Me Not) for Caesar’s I am.” There was nary a soul who did not know that oft-quoted line from Wyatt’s famous poem. George sat beside her, intently watching her face, his hand stroking the wide sable cuff of her sleeve.

  When the King’s song was done and all dutifully applauded, Francis Weston sniffed and pantomimed wiping a tear away from his one eye.

  “It almost makes one believe in undying love!” he quipped.

  “Everything dies, Francis,” Anne answered. Then she rose and went to Henry. Taking both his hands in hers, she said she would never forget this night when he gave his song to her; it would live forever in her memory and heart.

  “As it will in mine, sweetheart,” Henry vowed as he again embraced her. Then he called for wine, to drink a toast “to undying love.”

  11

  The trial finally commenced in June, a full eight months after Campeggio set his gouty feet on English soil. The case was to be heard in London, at Blackfriars Hall in the Dominican friars’ Charter House.

  Courtiers, commoners, churchmen, students, scholars, and interested foreigners all crowded into the vast hall; satin, sackcloth, silk, and homespun rubbing shoulders as all sought a seat or a place to stand.

  The King arrived first, but Catherine was so late bets were being laid that she would not appear at all. Then, from outside, in the city streets, a deafening cheer arose. The doors swung wide and there she stood, with the people of England behind her shouting their good tidings. She wore a stiff, austere, high-necked Spanish gown of black velvet with a long, royal purple satin robe over it. A large silver crucifix studded with amethysts adorned her breast. Her pale, gaunt face was framed by a black gable hood edged with pearls. And a rosary of pearls was twined around her clasped hands.

  Head held high, back straight and proud, she began to move forward. A hush fell as she approached the dais where the King sat, and the only sound to be heard then was the rustling of her gown.

  Disdaining the throne that had been provided for her beside the King’s, Catherine sank to her knees at Henry’s feet. Then, in a voice heavy with emotion and the lingering accent of Spain, she began to speak.

  “I take God and all the world as my witness that I have always been a true and obedient wife to you. I have been pleased and contented with everything that delighted you. I loved all those whom you loved, for your sake, whether they were my friends or enemies. These twenty years and more I have been your true wife, and by me you have had many children, though it has pleased God to call them from this world. And when you had me at the first, I take God to be my judge, I was a true maid, who had never known the touch of man; and whether it be true or not, I put it to your conscience. And to God I commit my cause!”

  Silence reigned, tense and taut as a bowstring, as Catherine remained kneeling, like a supplicant, at Henry’s feet. But Henry said nothing, not one word. His eyes narrowed, as cold and flinty as chips of blue ice, and the telltale red blotches of rage mottled his face as he leaned forward, his hands shaking as they gripped the arms of his throne in a supreme effort to restrain himself from reaching for her neck.

  At last Catherine stood and, with a deep curtsy, turned and left the courtroom.

  Thrice the court crier called her back. “Catherine, Queen of England, come in to court!” But she ignored him. She had had her say, so why linger in this court where the Pope’s man was of uncertain mind and all the English judges were Henry’s creatures? When the wide double doors opened and the people saw her they raised their voices in deafening cheers. “God bless Queen Catherine!” they cried again and again. Only when the doors had closed and the cheers had ceased did Henry rise to speak.

  With his hat held humbly in his hands, he declared that Fortune had indeed blessed him by giving him such a wife as Catherine. He praised her loyal and obedient nature and swore with his hand upon his heart that no fault with her person or age, nor carnal lust for any other, had prompted him to undertake these proceedings. And were it not for the grave doubts and fears for the succession that assailed his conscience without rest night and day, he would be content to dwell in a state of matrimony with her to his dying day.

  But not a soul believed him; his words did not ring true. Everyone knew by now that Anne Boleyn, “The Night Crow” as some called her, was always at his side and often perched upon his lap. And though they loved their King, their “Bluff King Hal,” the people of England believed in justice and Queen Catherine. “We’ll have none of Nan Bullen!” they roared, spitting and shaking their fists whenever they saw Anne. Had she shown her face at Blackfriars that day—and what a pity she did not!—I am certain she would have been torn to bloody bits.

  But Henry did not get the verdict he desired—he did not get any verdict at all. Instead, after almost two months of argument, Campeggio decided that they should recess for the summer, then reconvene in Rome before the Pope. So, once again, it had all been for nothing.

  It was Wolsey who bore the brunt of the King’s displeasure. Wolsey had promised him the verdict and failed to deliver. Craftily, the Cardinal played for time by renouncing all his worldly assets, including Hampton Court and York Place, both more lavish than any royal palace, and giving them to Henry, replete with all their furnishings, a treasure trove of gold and silver plate, tapestries, and art. But he knew it was only a matter of time before he would pay the ultimate penalty unless he could defeat Anne.

  I tried to help him, not out of any love for Wolsey—only the burning, soul-consuming desire to destroy Anne Boleyn.

  One afternoon I spied the Cardinal’s secretary, Thomas Cromwell, a loathsome, squat, oily-skin
ned toad of a man who always dressed in black. He was strolling in the palace gardens, his dark reptilian eyes perusing a sheaf of documents.

  “The Cardinal would do well to look to Mistress Anne’s reading matter,” I said, low but clear, as I passed him.

  And, before the week was out, the hint—and a certain forbidden book—was taken.

  A diversion caused Anne’s attention to wander, and she most unwisely left her book—William Tyndale’s Obedience of a Christian Man—lying on the window seat. Swiftly, as if it had sprouted wings and flown, it found its way to Wolsey. It was just the weapon he required; for Henry, despite his present difficulties with the Church, was a man who took his faith very seriously. Indeed, he had even penned a volume defending the sacraments against Martin Luther’s virulent Protestantism, for which the Pope had dubbed him “Defender of the Faith.” Surely this was dangerous terrain where not even Anne dared to tread!

  But Henry Norris—damn and curse him!—had seen, and rushed to warn Anne. I saw him take her arm, draw her aside, and whisper urgently in her ear.

  With a swish of skirts she was off and running. She met the King in the gallery, heading for the stairs, while down below, at the foot of the stairs, stood Wolsey with the heretical volume clutched in his hand.

  In a fit of weeping frenzy, Anne flung herself at Henry’s feet.

  “Sire, I have done something foolish, and I am afraid! Please be merciful and help me!”

  Tenderly, Henry stooped and raised her to her feet. “Come, come, sweeting, it cannot be as bad as all that!”

  In halting sobs, Anne explained how curiosity had prompted her to read Master Tyndale’s book in the hope that she might find something to aid their cause. But now the book had disappeared and she was afraid it would fall into the hands of some impressionable young person and be read for all the wrong reasons.

  Then, before Henry could answer, she spun around to face the steadily advancing Wolsey. “The book! It has been found! Oh, thank you, my lord Cardinal! Thank you! Now my mind can rest easy; no harm has been done!” She rushed over and snatched it from his hand while he just stood there, struck dumb by her audacity.

  Meekly, she returned to the King and knelt before him and humbly surrendered the book. “It would be safer in Your Majesty’s keeping. I relinquish it now into your hands and most humbly beseech your pardon.”

  “Darling”—he leaned down to caress her face—“stand, do not grovel; there is nothing to forgive!” He kissed her tear-damp cheek and trembling lips. “Come, take my arm, and walk with me.”

  As they walked away Henry began to idly peruse the book, flipping through its pages until he came upon a scrap of scarlet ribbon tucked inside.

  “I did encounter a passage of particular interest,” Anne explained. “Master Tyndale believes that a king is the highest power in his dominion and responsible for all matters that touch upon the welfare of his subjects, both temporal and spiritual.”

  “An interesting concept, most interesting,” Henry said thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “This volume might prove promising after all.” He tucked it beneath his arm. “I shall keep it safe and peruse it at my leisure. Thank you, Anne, for bringing it to my attention.”

  Standing behind me, I heard Henry Norris breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks be to God that Anne has a quick mind!”

  With a cry of outrage, I swung round and slapped him as hard as I could across the face.

  Why did fortune always favor Anne? Had I been caught with such a book I would most certainly have been fined and jailed, maybe even burned at the stake! But Anne…Anne could do no wrong!

  That night George was very curt with me, taking me to task for wishing ill upon his sister and inflicting violence upon his friend.

  “It is being bruited about that you are touched by madness, Jane. If you continue in this vein, you must not look to me to contradict them.”

  “Indeed, husband, I would not expect you to defend me! I am not your sister!”

  “What a pity you are not,” he sighed as he headed for the door, leaving me as always. “It would be easier to ignore you if you were. But alas, a wife’s claim upon a man’s attention is greater than a sister’s.”

  “Tell that to Anne!” I screamed, snatching up a candlestick and hurling it after him. “Methinks you confuse our roles and take her for your wife!”

  Eyeing me coolly, George calmly stamped out the little tongue of orange flame and beneath his boot the candle snapped.

  “Be careful that your rage does not burn down the King’s palace, Jane.”

  Without another word he closed the door behind him. Why must he always be so cold, so cold as ice? And why must I always let my temper gain the upper hand and have full sway, and make me say things that I knew would only make things worse and make him even more eager to quit my company? Why did I provoke him? Why did I let my own tongue betray me? I knew that sugar and honey catch more flies than vinegar and pepper; even the simplest simpleton knew that, and yet I could not fix that simple truth firm in my head when the rage overwhelmed me. At such times I felt as if my soul left my body and hovered way up high and looked down upon my screaming, vengeful, hateful self, watching me helplessly as I spoke words that would only serve to push my husband even farther away, when all I wanted was to draw him close to me, to feel his arms about me, his lips on mine, and to hear his sweet, tender words assuring me that he loved me and would never leave me. That was all I really wanted, yet I fought against myself, and made that ever more impossible with every word I uttered.

  I was not the only one whose temper threatened to ignite. Time rolled on as Henry and his advisers pondered what to do. At that time, one Thomas Cranmer, a churchman with strong Protestant leanings, but a most timid, soft-spoken man, was brought to the King’s attention when he opined that it would be wisest for the King to canvass the universities regarding the legality of his marriage.

  Meanwhile, Anne was growing impatient; she was sick and weary of debate and delay, and the strain was beginning to show.

  I was with her the day when Anne, on her way to the stables in a splendid new riding habit of tawny and river green velvet, encountered a maidservant carrying a stack of Henry’s shirts. Recognizing them at once, for no other man possessed such fine shirts of snowy white linen with exquisite blackwork embroidery on the collars and cuffs, Anne halted her, using her riding crop to bar the girl’s path, and demanded to know where she was taking the King’s shirts.

  “Why, to the Queen, my lady!” the girl replied. “Her Majesty always mends the King’s shirts!”

  Anne’s face clouded with rage and I knew she was about to explode in a magnificent tantrum. She cast her riding crop aside and it clattered loudly against the wall.

  “Give them to me!” she ordered and, with myself and Meg Lee trailing after her, she strode straight into the King’s privy chamber where he sat in conference with Sir Thomas Boleyn, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, Cromwell, and Thomas Cranmer, and flung the stack of shirts straight into Henry’s startled and bewildered face.

  “I have been waiting long, and might in the meantime have married and borne children, which is the greatest consolation in the world; but alas”—she threw up her hands—“farewell to my time and youth, wasted to no purpose at all!”

  As she turned to go, Henry leapt up and caught at her arm.

  “Nan, Nan, what is the meaning of this?” he implored. “Whatever has upset you?”

  Anne wrenched away from him. “Would you not say that the mending of a man’s shirts is a wifely duty?”

  “Aye, Nan, it is,” Henry affirmed.

  “Well, then”—Anne nodded gravely—“it is plain that you do but trifle with me! If Catherine is still entrusted with the mending of your shirts, then in your eyes she must still be your wife. Therefore, I shall bid you adieu and take my leave.”

  “Anne! Anne!” Henry ran after her. “Do not walk away from me, Anne! By the Cross, I swear all shall be yours in time. You need only wait
a little longer!”

  “It is always a little longer,” Anne said without stopping or turning back.

  “She shall be sent from the court!” Henry shouted, and this time Anne stopped. “When we return from the summer progress, I promise you, she shall be gone!”

  Instantly mollified, and with a small smile of triumph playing across her lips, Anne let the King embrace her.

  A few days later, Anne encountered Queen Catherine for what was to be the last time.

  Again with Meg Lee, I was following Anne’s crimson velvet–clad figure down the stairs as the sad, somber, black-gowned Queen was slowly ascending them, a string of black rosary beads wound round her hand and a mantilla of black lace veiling her silver-streaked hair.

  They paused on the landing to regard one another face-to-face.

  With sorrowful gray eyes, the skin around them puffed and red from tears and lack of sleep, Catherine of Aragon searched Anne Boleyn’s face intently.

  Anne’s back stiffened, yet she held the Queen’s gaze.

  Then Queen Catherine said something that surprised me. Of all the things this much wronged woman could have said, this I never expected.

  “I pity you. With your forbidden books you have given him the key that will free him from the shackles of any union that bores, wearies, or in any way displeases him. No one, no thing, not even Holy Mother Church, can hold him now. And someday he will seek to free himself from you. Be forewarned, Mistress Anne, your victory also holds the seeds of your destruction.”

  Anne flinched as if the Queen had just flung ice water in her face. “The son I bear him shall keep me safe.”

  “I pray that shall be so, Mistress Anne. I will remember you in my prayers,” she said as she gathered up her skirts and continued up the stairs. “One day you may have need of them.”

  Anne did not tarry; she gathered up the full, trailing skirt of her riding habit and ran the rest of the way downstairs and out into the sunny courtyard where Henry awaited her, tall and proud in the saddle, the rainbow of jewels upon his hat and doublet sparkling in the summer sun. A groom in the green and white Tudor livery knelt to cup Anne’s dainty red leather–booted foot in his hands and help her up into the crimson-fringed and gilded saddle.