The Boleyn Bride Page 24

  Poor Smeaton, he was very much in love with Anne. He wrote songs and music for her that he was too afraid to dedicate and openly declare were inspired by her, songs which Anne applauded as she would any good composition performed by a talented musician, which was all Mark Smeaton ever was to her. She never thought of him as anything but a musician, albeit a favored one whom she often chose to play for her when her head was aching or her nerves disquieted and she wanted some soothing music in her chamber.

  Knowing he could never hope to possess her, except in his dreams, Smeaton let himself be seduced first by her brother, and then by her mother, as a way of bringing himself a little closer to the one he loved best. Then he wept all the harder when we each in turn rejected him and refused to provide further fodder for his fantasies.

  Mayhap that was why he tried so hard to hold on to me, because in the shadows, I was almost like her. At one rendezvous, a hurried tryst in a quiet, dark-shadowed corner, I laughed in his face when he so far forgot himself as to call, “Anne!” I left him standing, weeping, with his prick wilting, as I smoothed down my skirts and went back to the bright lights and merriment in the Great Hall. I hurt him, but he always came back for more. Sometimes I gave it to him, and sometimes I didn’t. He never knew which tryst would truly be our last.

  “This will pass, Anne,” I said with a confidence that fooled neither of us. “Have patience,” I counseled, “and you will see. She will go the way of all the other lights of love he has dallied with. His love lights upon these women like a hungry honeybee does upon a flower, and once he’s sated and has supped his fill, off he goes, flitting off to the next flower, and then the next. . . .You will see, this drab country wallflower will not hold his interest for long. She’s boring! One might as well try talking to a sheep!”

  But Anne was too desperate and afraid to believe me. Rounding on me impatiently, she cried, “Even dull, dirty ditch water can, under the right circumstances, cool and refresh a parched and thirsty throat or hot, flushed face!”

  And, as time would soon reveal, I was wrong. But I had my own problems to preoccupy me at that moment, namely ridding myself of the worrisome Master Smeaton, who had become too cloying and clinging for words. I simply could not abide to have him touch me or anywhere near me! He demanded too much attention. The poor lad thought that because of what we had done together we were now a loving and devoted couple. I let my son know I did not thank him for passing this nuisance, this pest, on to me. I had been a fool to dally with him and regretted the momentary lapse that had led me to betray Remi, but fortunately he knew nothing about it, and I hoped he never would. I have always been very discreet.

  Desperate to conceive a son and keep her fragile hold upon her husband and crown, Anne knew she had to lure him back to her bed. But how could she do that when the King had turned against her and now favored a woman who was everything she was not? Indeed, that difference was Jane Seymour’s trump card and sole attraction. When an antidote is offered to one in the grip of an agonizing death from the poison they have just ingested, they care very little whether an ugly hag or a fair and beautiful princess holds the lifesaving vial in her hand.

  In the end, Anne did what she always did, resorting in her weary desperation to the tried and true. When she wanted to entice King Henry and remind him of her allure, she set herself like a rare and precious gem in the center of a spectacular masque and danced as though her life depended on it. This time it really did.

  When she sat with her circle of friends, all of them offering up ideas calculated to rekindle the fickle sovereign’s lust, George said, “Why not remind him that women like Jane Seymour can be had by the dozen, like buns for a penny in a London bakeshop, whilst you, my darling Anne, are unique and one of a kind?”

  She took his advice. While Henry sat and supped with Mistress Seymour, and Queen Anne pled a headache and kept to her chamber, he suddenly found himself confronted by a dozen dowdy, whey-faced, beak-nosed celestial blue silk–clad Jane Seymours, all dancing dully, bobbing and swaying, in a row before him, meek and pure, with partlets of blue-embroidered white lawn filling in the square necklines of their gowns and their pallid blond heads boxed in by old-fashioned gable hoods.

  Anne had paid an artist to surreptitiously render a perfect likeness of Mistress Seymour’s face and had then had masks made for the dancers, so they in truth appeared like those penny a dozen buns George had mentioned. They executed the steps adequately enough, rather like a children’s dancing class, but without verve or especial skill to music as dull and unimaginative as the dance steps themselves. As the music met its meek conclusion, the row of dancing Janes clustered together, curtsying in a close-packed group, perhaps aiming for the illusion of a bunch of country daisies, gathered together in a bouquet as a gift to give His Majesty.

  Then a trumpet blared a sudden, jolting, discordant note that made us all sit up and blink as Anne barged her way through, with shoulders and elbows, sending the simulated Seymours scattering like pins on a bowling green.

  She was splendid as a peacock gowned in shimmering green and blue satin and black lace overlaid with those fascinating eyed plumes, sparkling with what must have been thousands of jet, sapphire, peridot, honey golden topaz, emerald, and diamond beads. A mask of jet-beaded black lace tantalizingly veiled her black diamond eyes, and a fan of peacock plumes swayed atop her head as her hair swung free like a cloak of black silk all the way down to her knees.

  I had never seen her like this before. So energetic and vital, performing bold moves, feline leaps, sudden spins, and high kicks, swirling her skirts and shaking her feathers to lure her mate. One moment she was like a black panther, a lithe and lethal dangerous black beauty, and a graceful, gliding black swan the next, slowly swirling, gracefully swaying, like an exotic blue and green flower floating on a reflecting pool. But the black lace couldn’t hide the desperation in her eyes. I saw the terror underneath every move she made, the fear of what might happen if she failed to woo the King back to her bed and conceive a son.

  George and their friends, the ever loyal Weston, Brereton, and Norris, danced around her, masked in shimmering black lace, in brilliant and befeathered costumes of peacock-hued satin, fluttering great fans of peacock plumes. But this time was different—the men danced only as a group, to showcase Anne, like a jewel; none of them came forward to partner her. Every move they, and she, made was calculated to draw the King’s eye to Anne, to rouse and kindle his lust into a blazing carnal bonfire that would lead him straight back to her bed long enough to plant his seed within her.

  It worked. At least it seemed to. King Henry rose from the table, moving like a man under a spell, pushed his way past the fluttering fans of peacock plumes, seized Anne, and crushed her hard against his chest. He kissed her with a bruising intensity, then swept her up into his powerful arms and carried her out.

  We remained in awkward silence at the table staring after them, then a babble of voices began, talking all at once.

  Jane Seymour sat next to the King’s now empty chair and looked blankly around, not sure what to make of it.

  Francis Weston leaned cattily over the back of her chair and hissed, “Take that, you whey-faced bitch, the King obviously prefers a more peppery wench!” then blew a cloud of black pepper into her face, stinging her pale blue eyes and making her sneeze several times.

  Only a little time had passed before my husband nudged me and whispered, “Go to her; Anne may have need of you.”

  Though I could not think why, if things were going as Anne planned, I obeyed and went softly into the anteroom outside her bedchamber.

  I was never a one like George’s wife to press an avid ear to a door or an eager eye to a keyhole. But this time there was no need for either. I heard voices raised, ripping cloth, and flesh striking flesh. These were fast followed by the unmistakable sounds of passion punctuated by slaps, shouts of “Whore!” and “Bitch!” followed by a woman’s sobs and words too muffled by tears to be heard clearly through t
he thick oaken door.

  “YOU CAST A SPELL ON ME!” Henry’s outraged bellow came loud and clear through the door, making it seem flimsy and sheer as gossamer, before it crashed open, kicked by the King’s broad and mighty foot encased in a gem-encrusted white duckbill velvet slipper.

  Panting hard, his face livid pink and sweaty, King Henry stopped and stared hard at me, as though all this were my fault for bringing Anne into the world, yet said nothing, then continued on his stormy way.

  Beyond the broken door, I saw Anne crouched, crying on the floor, her face, half-veiled by a curtain of black hair, hidden in her hands, her peacock finery hanging in tatters, trailing from her bare shoulders, on which livid red scratches stood out, puffed and raw, like clumsy red stitches on alabaster satin, her skirt in luxurious shimmery beaded shreds that gave tantalizing glimpses of white limbs marred by bruises and the same ugly, angry red scratches.

  Before I could reach her, George was there, moving swiftly past me, to take her in his arms.

  Unnoticed, his wife trailed slowly after him, like an annoying younger sibling whose presence is undesirable, and came to stand beside me.

  Together, we watched as Anne clung to George, whimpering and trembling, and soaked his shoulder with her tears. They spoke in voices too soft for us to hear. After a few moments, he bent and, putting a hand beneath her knees, gathered her up, tenderly, into his arms. He came toward us. For a moment I thought he was bringing her to us, for us, fellow females, to tend. But when I saw the look in his eyes, I knew he did not even see us. Much quieter than the King had been, he gently shut the door. And we saw no more of them. I would later learn that he laid Anne upon her bed and stayed all night with her, lying across the foot of her bed, leaving only with the dawn. This would later be viewed through the red veil of adultery, a sin that would be used against them in a court of law.

  Beside me, Jane quaked, her face red, beaded with sweat, hands clenched tight at her sides, balled into fists that dripped blood from where her nails had bitten through the skin of her palms.

  “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!” she seethed in a deadly quiet whisper that was somehow more frightening than a bloodcurdling scream as her hands clawed at the sides of her head, tearing at her hair, as though she might somehow manage to dig through her skull and claw out the worm of jealousy burrowing deep into her brain, driving her mad, and causing her such terrible pain.

  With a sudden shriek, she wrenched her hands away, taking with them two great hanks of mousy hair, and ran from the room in tears. I would later learn that she ran straight into the arms of Cromwell, to deluge his eager ears with delusional tales borne of jealousy, hate, and a lust for vengeance, to punish one for giving a love, and the other for receiving a love, that could never be hers.

  But no matter what vile tales that venomous little snake told that loathsome toad Cromwell, Anne was safe for the time being. King Henry’s ardor, though expressed in hateful, hurtful words and violent fury, had left her with child.

  I could hardly believe that any good could come of that violent, ugly encounter. But my daughter’s womb was filled, and, for now, she was safe and none of her enemies or rivals could touch her.

  Once again Anne reigned supreme over the court, the Queen triumphant. Her enemies must wait and see what fruit her womb bore before they could try to tear her down again.

  When word reached us that the woman now known against her will as the Dowager Princess of Wales, but always, in my heart, as the saintly and beloved Queen Catherine, had died, summoning the last vestiges of her strength to put pen to paper and declare that her eyes desired Henry above all else, and sign herself, one last time, “Catherine, Queen of England,” I smiled, bittersweet, at her audacity, and in the secret chamber of my heart, where none could venture unless I let them in, I wept and greatly mourned her passing. I would always regret that it had been my own daughter, flesh of my flesh, who had been the instrument of her destruction and caused her so much suffering. Queen Catherine was a good woman, and she deserved so much better than she received at the hands of King Henry, the husband who promised she would never cry again or ever be unhappy after they were married.

  Instead of mourning, the court celebrated. A decree went out that all should deck themselves from head to toe in jolly yellow and gather in the Great Hall for dancing and feasting. Even the little Princess Elizabeth was dressed in sunny yellow and brought in to join her jubilant parents. When he saw her, King Henry laughed and swooped her up onto his massive shoulder and carried her around for all his courtiers to admire, drawing all eyes to her vivid Tudor red hair and proudly proclaiming her “the living spit o’ me!”

  Anne, her belly round as the sun, was at his side, radiant as I had never seen her before when she was breeding. During her last two pregnancies—if they were indeed pregnancies—she had been so gaunt, sickly, rail thin, pale, and frail. But this time was different; she was glowing, and her face and figure were healthy and round.

  They seemed the very picture of a perfect happy family. Holbein should have been on hand to paint them. The three of them standing there, smiling, until their teeth and faces must have ached, arrayed in sunny yellow.

  Anne’s hand, I noticed, rarely strayed from where it rested protectively upon her belly, as though she were patting the son she was sure rested within, secretly urging him to take all her strength he needed to see him through to his triumphal entry into the world where he would someday reign as England’s King, speaking softly so that only he could hear, telling him that a golden destiny was waiting for him; all he had to do was live.

  And Henry beside her, a bloated golden sun of a man, robust and pompous, with a feathered cap encrusted with pearls and golden beads that he kept on to hide his balding pate, thus making it fashionable for men to keep their splendid hats on indoors, and his yellow doublet and surcoat tricked out with a blinding dazzle of gold braid, beads, golden topazes, yellow diamonds, and pearls creamy and gold, and artful puffings and slashings of cloth-of-gold designed to distract the beholder’s eye from his ever-expanding girth, only slightly restrained by the boiled leather stays he now wore beneath his gaudy garb, which poor Henry Norris had the unenviable task of lacing him into each morning. Even his mammoth codpiece was jeweled and studded with honey topazes and pearls.

  Elizabeth sat, perched regally upon his broad shoulder as though she were Queen of the World and this was her throne, wearing the jolly yellow gown Anne had herself lovingly embroidered with a flight of golden butterflies.

  Laughing, Henry tore off her little cap and tossed it high into the air, and called for everyone to look at his daughter’s fiery Tudor red hair.

  But it wasn’t destined to last. A moment came when the King discreetly disappeared. Around the same time, it was noticed that Mistress Seymour was also absent.

  When Anne went in search of her husband, she found him with Jane Seymour’s skirts spread like the petals of an upside-down buttercup over his lap, giggling as he jiggled her up and down—“Riding the Maypole,” as he called it—while he twirled the yellow ribbons on her bodice around his fingers and tugged them gently to reveal her milk pale breasts. “Even her nipples are colorless!” Anne would later declare most scornfully.

  Never one to hold back, Anne strode forward and grabbed hold of the golden chain around Mistress Seymour’s neck and snatched “that hussy” from Henry’s lap, sending her sprawling flat on the floor with her skirts flying up over her shame-flushed face, leaving her floundering on the floor with her thighs splayed wide and her most intimate parts on display.

  When Anne looked down at the broken chain she was holding, she saw her husband’s fat and florid face dangling from it, ringed in diamonds.

  “Well, well, Mistress Seymour, I see your virtue is not beyond price, after all,” she said tartly, parroting the Seymour slut’s false modesty as she twirled the pendant around, swinging it in swift circles on its broken chain. “Apparently you two have agreed upon a price—bad art and little diamonds.” />
  Henry tried to make excuses, to keep Anne calm and the child within her safe, but Anne would have none of it. She cursed the King as she never had before and lashed him with his own likeness, so that he had to guard his face against being cut by the paltry diamonds he had given his mousy little whore.

  Suddenly she rounded on the whimpering girl again. Jane Seymour was then trying to crawl quietly away. With one swift move, Anne kicked her and sent her sprawling flat on her face, “banging her big beaky Seymour nose on the floor,” she later boasted.

  When Henry tried again to pacify her, deftly snatching the dangling pendant from her hand in a moment of distraction, then reaching out his arms, to embrace her, calling her sweetheart, swearing that Mistress Seymour meant nothing to him, blaming it all on a jousting accident he had suffered recently, in which he had lain stunned for some two hours and had been taken briefly for dead. The whole experience, he averred, had left him shaken and eager to grasp at life, to live and love, and since Anne’s condition precluded them from engaging in any amorous consort, he had gathered up the first willing rose that presented herself.

  Anne snorted her disbelief, rolled her eyes, and spun on her heel, pausing only long enough on her way out to deal Jane Seymour’s lemon yellow–clad backside another swift kick.

  The next morning Anne found in her sewing basket a crudely bound booklet, of the sort that are sold on the streets of London, no doubt put there by Mistress Seymour or one of her friends. It was a so-called “Book of Prophecy.”

  Curious, she perused its pages until she came to an image of King Henry, standing in his favorite and familiar pose, hands on hips, with his feet planted wide apart, glowering out at the world as if he were its master and none but a fool would dare cross him. Beside him stood a woman dressed in elegant black. She was headless. She wore a rope of pearls with a B suspended from it. It was Anne’s favorite necklace; George had given her that pendant, and she was seldom seen without it. Even as she sat there, eyes wide with horror, staring at that crude and vulgar drawing, her fingers reached up to fiddle nervously with the big golden B resting in the hollow of her throat, the three large creamy teardrop pearls dangling from it clacking against her fingernails. A head that was clearly Anne’s lay in a pool of blood at the King’s feet, her long black hair sopping up the blood.