The Tudor Wife

Laughing heartily, with one arm flung around the shoulders of his best friend, Sir Francis Weston, George approached us.

‘Ladies’—he doffed his cap and bowed to us—‘we bring you fruit!’ He indicated the big straw basket carried by Sir Henry Norris. Then, assisted by his friends, he began to distribute it among us—apples, oranges, plums, grapes, cherries, and pears. And soon joyful banter, merry laughter, and coy flirtations replaced the sleepy air of boredom and gloom that, only moments before, had pervaded the room.

Sir Thomas Wyatt, of the sable beard and smoldering eyes, renowned as the most brilliant poet of the court, plopped himself down upon a cushion at Lady Eleanor’s feet and began to strum his lute and serenade us with a song about the fruits of love. As he sang, his dark eyes lingered meaningfully upon that lady’s bosom, while that beloved, one-eyed, flame-haired rogue, Sir Francis Weston, and blond, blue-eyed, baby-faced Sir Henry Norris settled themselves on either side of Madge Shelton and began to playfully vie for her attentions. A tawny tendril of hair had escaped from the back of her gable hood, and each begged to be allowed to cut it and wear it forever enshrined in a golden locket over his heart. And tall, patrician Sir William Brereton smilingly commandeered Lady Margery’s fan to cool himself and settled back with his head in her lap to let that awestruck damsel feed him grapes and timidly stroke his sleek, raven-black hair.

Only George stood apart. Though a smile and a witty remark were always upon his lips, his eyes constantly strayed to the windows.

‘Will you sit, my lord?’ I asked, moving aside my skirts to make room for him beside me on the window seat.

Smiling his thanks, he accepted and turned at once to prop his elbows upon the sill and lean out, eyes squinting into the distance, to scrutinize the road.

‘You are awaiting a messenger from your father, perhaps?’ I queried.

‘Anne,’ he answered, his voice rich with warmth and longing, ‘Anne arrives today.’ His body tensed and he leaned farther out. ‘Will!’ He beckoned anxiously to Brereton. ‘Come here; your sight is sharper than mine. Look there and tell me, does the dust rise or only my hopes?’

And, sure enough, there in the distance was a cloud of dust, and in its midst we could just discern a cart and a small group of riders. Then he was gone, sprinting down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

‘Is it Anne? Has Anne come?’ George’s friends chorused excitedly. And, forgetting all else, without even a bow or a by-your-leave, they bounded after him, jostling and tripping each other in their haste.

‘Sir William, my fan!’ Lady Margery called after Brereton. But it was too late; they were already gone. And we were left to our own devices, and each other’s dreary and familiar company, once again.

From George’s abandoned place, I leaned from the window and watched the scene below.

He called her name and waved his cap in the air.

She waved back and, spurring her horse onward, left her attendants, with their burden of pack horses, cart, and luggage, coughing in the dust.

She had scarcely reined her mount before George was there, sweeping her down from the saddle and spinning her round and round in a joyous embrace. Their laughter blurred together and became one, and the skirt of her rich brown velvet riding habit billowed out behind her.

‘Greetings, Anne, and have you a kiss for your oldest and dearest friend?’ Sir Thomas Wyatt asked, elbowing past Weston and Brereton, flaunting the privilege of prior acquaintance. The Wyatts of Allington Castle were neighbors of the Boleyns in Kent, and Tom and his sister Meg had been their childhood playmates.

‘Indeed I have!’ she answered, and promptly turned to plant a kiss upon George’s cheek. ‘And one for my second oldest and dearest friend as well!’ she added, giving Wyatt the requested kiss.

‘And what of me?’ Francis Weston demanded. ‘Though we have never met, Mistress Anne, George has told me so much about you that I feel I have known you my whole life!’

‘Indeed, Sir Francis, George has told me so much of you that I feel the same, although…’ With a tantalizing smile she hesitated. ‘Methinks my reputation would soon come to grief if I were to bestow such a familiarity upon you!’

His friends burst into laughter and slapped Weston’s back and nudged him playfully.

‘Now, Mistress Anne, I protest!’ he cried, dropping to one knee with a hand upon his heart. ‘I am no cad, no matter what they say of me!’ he finished with a saucy wink.

‘It matters not where the truth lies,’ she said graciously, extending her hand. ‘You are George’s friend, and so you shall be mine as well!’

Then Henry Norris and William Brereton were pressing forward. There they were, the brightest stars of the court, clamoring for her attention, for just one word, one glance. Like starving beggars devouring the crumbs tossed to them. What fools men are!

They were all talking at once now—all but George, who merely looked at her and smiled adoringly—jostling and shoving each other aside, begging to be the one to escort her to her chamber. Then, without a word, George proffered his arm and she took it. The others groaned, long and loud, like men dying upon a field of battle. To console Brereton, Anne let him carry her riding crop; he held it as if it were some sacred relic that he would lay down his life for.

‘Hold a moment!’ Norris cried. He darted in front of Anne and, from the basket over his arm, began to strew crimson rose petals in her path. ‘I knew my lady would be arriving today, so I was up with the dawn to gather a carpet of roses for her to walk upon!’

‘He means his valet was up with the dawn to gather them!’ Weston chortled.

Not to be outdone, both Wyatt and Weston announced that they had written sonnets to welcome her. And before Wyatt could claim the privilege of prior acquaintance again, Weston loudly commenced reciting, only to have his words curtailed by a sharp cuff upon the ear.

‘You look a pirate and it is a pirate you are!’ Wyatt hotly declared, referring to the patch Weston wore over the empty socket of his left eye. ‘You have pirated my entire second verse!’

‘It is a bold accusation you make, Sir, and for it you shall answer!’ Weston’s hand sought the hilt of his sword and he advanced towards Wyatt, the large pendent pearl dangling from his left earlobe swaying violently.

It was then that Anne came between them, laughing and resting a hand lightly upon each of their indignantly heaving chests.

‘Verily, this is the most passionate welcome I have ever had! Please, gentlemen, do not spoil it by brawling. Let these rose petals be the only red that falls upon the ground this day, and not your life’s blood!’

Then, all thoughts of violence dispelled, they followed her inside.

Anne had scarcely arrived at court—indeed her servants had not had time to unpack all her gowns—before love literally fell at her feet.

Love came in the form of Harry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland’s son and heir. Tall, gangling, gingerhaired, stuttering, shy, and constantly tripping over his own tongue and feet, Harry Percy was the last man anyone would have expected to win Anne Boleyn’s heart. For his clumsiness he was famous; I once saw him mount his horse on one side and fall right off the other. And it was said about the court that ‘anyone can fall down stairs, but Harry Percy has made an art of falling up them!’ He looked like a farm boy masquerading as a prince, and only the most mercenary of maidens would have been smitten with him. And, as much as I would like to paint Anne blacker, and say that such a one was she, to do so would be a lie. The love that shone in her eyes and the tender, indulgent smile that graced her lips whenever she looked at Harry Percy told their own tale.

It was upon her first day to serve Queen Catherine, when she sat sewing beside me, that Harry Percy came in with a group of gentlemen, tripped over a footstool, and fell sprawling at Anne’s feet. We rocked with laughter until tears ran down our faces. Even Queen Catherine herself could not suppress a smile, though she tried to hide it behind her hand. Only Anne was silent. Then, with a gentle smile, she bent down and softly asked, ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

‘I…I…’ Percy stammered, staring up at her with eyes big, brown, and adoring as a spaniel’s. ‘I tr-tripped.’

His words inspired a fresh burst of laughter.

‘Take no notice of them,’ Anne advised. ‘Anyone is apt to trip.’

‘And what a nice trip it was, eh, Percy?’ Francis Weston quipped, laughing harder still when Percy failed to comprehend the jest.

But Anne and Percy were oblivious to it all; they had eyes only for each other.

It all came so easily for her. She had found true love and her niche, occupying a unique place at the heart—and in the hearts—of that band of merry wits. With George, Wyatt, Weston, Brereton, and Norris she was most often to be found. Together they would sit huddled in a window embrasure or outside under the trees, laughing and setting sonnets to song or devising clever masques to entertain the court. She was the flame to which they, like moths, were drawn. Women envied her yet rushed to emulate her—the cunning sleeves, doglike collars, and the French hood (a gilt-, pearl-, or jewel-bordered crescent of velvet or satin that perched upon a lady’s head, often with a veil trailing gracefully behind) which she favored over the more cumbersome gable hood with its stiff, straight wooden borders and peaked tip that framed the wearer’s face like a dormer window. And now she was set to wed the heir to a rich earldom, and it was a love match to boot! Even Dame Fortune seemed to fawn on Anne Boleyn!

But then came a hint of trouble, the distant rumble of thunder, like a storm brewing just over the horizon, and I was among the first to heed it.

2 (#ulink_1ba498fa-68e7-57a6-86bc-1a1d07806da1)

At first, it was just like any other night at court; no special cause for celebration, no privileged guest to welcome or holy day to mark. We dined in the Great Hall, and afterwards we danced. The King and Queen sat on their thrones, and hovering nearby, at the King’s beck and call, were Cardinal Wolsey—the butcher’s boy turned priest, who had made himself indispensable to the King and now held the reins of power as Lord Chancellor—and his perpetually black-clad, equally grim-faced henchman, the ruthless and clever lawyer, Thomas Cromwell.

Henry VIII was in one of his moods, sullen and silent, a dark scowl perched like an evil gargoyle upon his face. His beady blue eyes narrowed and his cruel little pink mouth gnawed distractedly at his knuckles above the magnificent jeweled rings that graced each finger.

He was like two souls warring for control of a single body. He was ‘Bluff King Hal’ when it suited him, always smiling, always laughing. At such times he could speak to a person—noble or peasant—and make him feel as if he were the most important person in the world. He would look deep into their eyes and nod thoughtfully, as if his whole existence hung upon their every word. But when he was in a red-hot temper or one of his black moods, it was like the Devil claimed him body and soul, and he became a bloated, red-faced, raging monster; a tyrant, ready to shed the blood of friend or foe, anyone who dared cross him.

He was a giant of a man, massive and muscular—at the time of which I now write, an active life of dancing and sport kept the future promise of fat at bay—with broad shoulders and trim, finely shaped calves of which he was inordinately vain. He was very handsome, ruddycheeked, with red-gold hair and a short, neatly groomed beard. And his mode of dressing made him seem larger and more dazzling still. His velvet coats, which reached only to just above his knees lest they obscure his shapely calves, were padded at the shoulders to make them look bigger and broader still; his doublets were a frenzy of jewels, gilding, embroidery, puffing, and slashing; and his round, flat caps were garnished with gilt braid, jewels, and jaunty curling white plumes. Silk hose sheathed his legs, and the square-toed velvet slippers he favored were embroidered with golden threads and precious gems. And round his neck he wore heavy golden collars and chains with diamonds, and other magnificent gems, as big as walnuts.

From time to time he would dart swift, peevish glances at the woman by his side—Catherine of Aragon.

At the age of fifteen a golden-haired Spanish girl named Catalina had bid farewell to her parents, Their Most Christian Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella, changed her name to Catherine, and left behind her native land, to brave a savage, storm-tossed sea and marry Arthur, Prince of Wales. The moment that that frightened, weary, homesick girl, green-tinged and fluttery-bellied with mal de mer, set foot on English soil, a miracle occurred—the people of England, always wary and distrustful of foreigners, fell in love with her. It was a love that would last a lifetime and sustain her through all the travails to come. Her bridegroom was a pale and sickly boy who succumbed to death’s embrace before, Catherine swore, he could become a true husband to her, and for years afterwards she languished in penury, darning her threadbare gowns and pawning her jewels and gold plate to pay her servants and keep body and soul together, while her father-in-law, the miserly King Henry VII and her equally crafty father, King Ferdinand of Aragon, haggled over the unpaid portion of her dowry.

Then the old King died and young Prince Henry, glowing with promise and golden vitality, at age seventeen was crowned the eighth Henry. His first official act as king was to make Catherine his queen. He loved her brave, tenacious spirit, her kindness, sweet smile, quiet grace, and gentle nature. At the time, it didn’t matter to him that she was six years his senior; Henry was in love. And, for a time at least, everything seemed golden.