Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (21 page)

‘He implied that I was your whore.’ I pulled myself away from the King, feeling ashamed and angry, I walked over to the fireplace; it had already been lit as, being late-September, there was a distinct autumn chill in the air. ‘Your Grace . . . Henry . . . It is so unfair! I have maintained my honour and yet,’ I threw my arms open in despair, ‘everybody thinks the worst of me, regardless of what I say or do! I’m getting sick and tired of it! Do you not see how much it offends me?’ I felt Anne’s intemperance begin to take hold, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ Henry spoke firmly. The door opened and in stepped George Cavendish, another one of Wolsey’s men. I recognised Master Cavendish when I first met him at Beaulieu, some few weeks earlier. I remembered that he would be one of the people to write an account of Anne Boleyn in his memoirs of Cardinal Wolsey; as a result, I always tried to be on my best behaviour around him. However, in spite of my good intentions, with anger simmering in my breast, I forgot myself entirely.

‘Sire, His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey has returned from France and begs an audience with you.’ He cast a nervous glance in my direction, his speech faltering, clearly aware that his master would want to seek a private audience—alone with the King. ‘May I tell the Cardinal where he may meet with Your Grace?’ Before Henry had the chance to speak, my words burst forth—rashly and impudently—yet I could not stop myself.

‘Where else should the Cardinal come, except where the King is?’ A moment’s silence descended upon the room. I noticed that for a few seconds Henry appeared somewhat caught off guard. Master Cavendish shifted his weight nervously, until the King gave his command,

‘Tell His Grace to come here forthwith. We are keen to hear his report.’ The lightness had gone out of Henry’s voice, and I wondered whether I had chased it away, or whether the King had already turned his attention to the results of Wolsey’s mission to persuade the French King to support his annulment. With Henry’s words, Master Cavendish bowed and left the room. I had expected the King to admonish me for speaking out of turn, but to my surprise, Henry simply moved closer toward me and drew me in to his warm embrace.

‘Fret not, sweetheart. Let us hear what news of Francis and let us pray that the Cardinal has been successful in his mission.’ Within a few moments, there was another knock at the door. Henry moved away from me, and standing squarely behind his desk, he spoke once more,

‘Enter.’ The door had opened and a rather sheepish looking Wolsey entered. I had no doubt that Master Cavendish had alerted the Cardinal to my presence, and Wolsey’s discomfiture was clear.

‘Your Majesty,’ The Cardinal bowed toward the King, but his eyes kept glancing toward me, clearly unable to fathom the reason for my presence in this most intimate of meetings between the King and his first minister. I stood my ground, somewhat haughtily, I must confess. Raising myself to my full height, I fixed my stare upon the Cardinal and God forgive me, but I am sure that the faintest smile of satisfaction toyed lightly at the corner of my lips.

Somewhat hesitantly the Cardinal finally spoke, his hands clasped together before him in front of his oversized belly. ‘Your Grace, I . . . I have news of King Francis . . . perhaps . . . perhaps we may speak alone?’

Robustly and defiantly, as if defending my honour, the King replied curtly to his first Minister. ‘You may speak here, for whatever you have to say to
Us
can be said in front of Mistress Boleyn. We have a mutual interest in the outcome of your parlance with King Francis.’ I saw the flicker of recognition and terror pass fleetingly across the Cardinal’s face. I knew in that moment, he had for the first time realised that I was no passing fancy for Henry; that he, like many others, entirely underestimated me. Anne was the thunderstorm that appeared at the end of a long, hot sunny day, gathering from nowhere and sweeping the court up in a roar, just as Thomas Wyatt had predicted. I knew then that Wolsey realised that things had become very serious for him, perhaps fatally so.

Wolsey had the difficult task of breaking the news to Henry that although Francis extended deeply and sincerely his brotherly love toward the King, he could not, given the delicacy of the situation in Rome, publicly support Henry’s case for an annulment. The King was furious and ranted about the treachery and disloyalty of his royal cousin. Wolsey too had to endure a fair share of the brunt of Henry’s anger, as the King upbraided his first minister for his diplomatic failure to convince Francis of the moral righteousness of his quest to be rid of Katherine. I was aware that Francis knew Anne personally from her time spent at the French court in the service of Mary Tudor and later, Queen Claude. I also remembered from history that Francis’ reputation as a womaniser was notorious, and I had no doubt that he saw easily enough through Henry’s charade; whilst he understood that the King’s conscience may well be touched, Henry’s desire to make Anne his wife and Queen was one of his main motivations for the annulment.

Like all of Henry’s courtiers, the Cardinal absorbed the King’s fury with downcast eyes and patient silence, eventually soothing the King with calm words of steadfast loyalty and assurances of a happy outcome. As I watched the scene impassively, inwardly I could feel Anne’s frustration gently smoldering, her patience—my patience—of this ever more intense
ménage a trois
between Henry, Katherine and myself becoming harder to bear with each passing day.

Wolsey managed to sweeten this most bitter of pills by presenting Henry with a glittering array of precious gifts from his French royal ‘cousin.’ First among these was confirmation of the French King’s intention to sign a treaty of friendship and solidarity with the English against Charles V; to be sealed with a presentation of France’s highest order of chivalry to the King, the
Ordre de Saint-Michel
. It became clear that over the next few weeks, the Cardinal would inveigle himself once again into the King’s good graces by his impeccable execution of a number of staged pieces of court grandeur, which was to culminate in the investiture of the King in the Order in early November.

The court would once again be on the move, and some four weeks later, by mid October, we set off for Henry’s favourite residence, one upon which he had lavished much attention and built a fabulous array of leisure facilities for his entertainment; a palace surrounded by the most bountiful of parklands, and nestled idyllically away from the city on the banks of the Thames; one that would provide the backdrop to some of the most momentous occasions in Anne’s life. We were heading to the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich.

Chapter Eleven

The Palace of Placentia at Greenwich

November 10, 1527

We travelled to Greenwich in the same way that the court had made its journey to Richmond, along the Thames. The inclement weather we experienced that summer and autumn was comparatively mild, for the winter of 1527-28 was to be an exceptionally bitter one. For much of the season, parts of the Thames froze and became impassable by barge. I heard throughout those winter months that the supply of food, particularly flour, was becoming ever scarcer, and from time to time there were riots in the city of London. I found myself praying for those poor souls desperate for food and warmth in that harshest of English winters.

Such was the case, as I knelt in prayer on that foggy, and exceptionally chilly, November morning. The court was abuzz with excitement, for that day marked the culmination of the festivities surrounding the King’s investiture into the
Ordre de Saint-Michel
. The investiture itself would take place in the King’s Presence Chamber later that morning. To celebrate the occasion, a joust was planned for the afternoon, followed by a grand banquet with music and dancing. For the first time, I was to witness the full coming together of the great lords and ladies of Henry’s court, all eager to participate in the celebrations; to see and be seen and pay homage to their Lord.

Greenwich Palace proved to be the most magnificent setting for the revels which had been carefully planned by Cardinal Wolsey. Exulting the King’s Majesty with ever grander celebrations since his return from France, my Lord Cardinal gradually reasserted his political dominance at court. Thomas Wolsey was, by then, fully aware of my ascendancy in the King’s favour and, at least to my face, treated me with great deference and respect. Yet, as I was learning so often in this game of court politics and power plays, tensions simmered dangerously beneath the surface. I suspected that the Lord Cardinal prayed fervently every day for my swift removal from the court and from Henry’s affections. From my prior knowledge of history, I also knew that, in his heart, Wolsey would never truly support my relationship with the King. We both recognised that in the battle for the King’s heart and mind there could only be one victor. Yet for the time being, I had to remind myself that His Grace remained one of the most useful men in England for assisting Henry in gaining his annulment from Katherine.

And so, that morning I knelt in prayer along with the rest of the royal household, the court having come together early in the day to celebrate mass in The Church of the Observant Friars at Greenwich. The King and Queen knelt side-by-side in front of the high altar, as the Dean of the Chapel Royal led prayers of thanksgiving. As I watched Henry and Katherine together, I felt a tightness take hold in my stomach. It was irksome enough to be in Katherine’s service, but to see the man that I loved at her side, showing her all due deference as his Queen, was difficult for me to tolerate. Knowing how much it upset me, Henry would take me in his arms before any such event. Stroking my hair, he would patiently explain the political necessity for him to be at his wife’s side, and that she meant nothing to him. He would tell me how much he longed that it could be me, as it would in time, and that we must be patient. By and by, with his soothing words and sweet caresses, my irritation would be appeased, until I was faced with the reality that I was still ‘the other woman.’ I could not help but feel that I was being put back in my gilded cage until it was convenient to let me out once more, and I railed against my confinement.

I reflected on the irony of the fact that I had so often felt this way in my modern day life with Daniel. When our time together was over – which always seems too short – he would return to his ‘real’ life and his family and, once again, I would be left alone to wait patiently. Oh! How I had become sick of waiting patiently! I often wondered if this was always to be my fate.

I attempted to distract myself by glancing round the assembled congregation, the cream of England’s aristocracy. By that time, I had met, and become familiar with, many of the people who would play out the drama of Anne’s life at court. It had taken only a few short weeks, but the Boleyn’s stellar rise in the King’s favour had become increasingly evident, and I found myself as the figurehead of an emerging court faction centered on our family and the reformed faith.

Anne was ambitious, and although my modern sensibilities often tried to temper this, her wilful courage and pride too often shone through, and I had learnt how easily she could make enemies. As I looked around, I saw many of those who would wish me removed, first among these was Katherine, who utterly despised me; by then, I confess that the feeling was entirely mutual. Influenced by her mother, it did not take long for the eleven-year-old Princess Mary to turn against me. I glanced across the far side of the Chapel and saw the young girl in profile and deep in prayer.

Mary was a child of relatively small and petite stature. Quite a pretty little thing overall; she did however have a strong, square jaw line, a rather pronounced and delicate chin and her mother’s small, slightly upturned nose. I had tried on several occasions to engage the child in polite conversation; enquiring after Her Grace’s health and pleasure. I soon found that the Princess shared her mother’s disdain for Anne, whom she clearly saw as nothing more than a common whore and fledgling heretic. Of course, this did nothing to warm me toward her. It was clear that both Anne and Mary, sharing the same sense of pride and headstrong determination, were always going to be at loggerheads with one another.

Perhaps more gracious, but no less deadly, was the Duke of Suffolk, whose wife, the Dowager Queen of France and the King’s sister, also hated Anne Boleyn and was well known to have used opprobrious language in relation to the King’s new paramour. Reinforcing this emerging faction were other lords, whose ancient lineages and religious inclinations lent themselves more naturally to favour the Queen; the Nevilles, the Courtenays, the Montagues, and the De La Poles, all who steadfastly began to nail their colours to the Aragonese mast and to show themselves as no friend of Anne’s.

At the same time, I knew that with her truly magnetic personality, vivacious flair and seductive intelligence, Anne was beginning to develop a network of friends and allies amongst existing members of the King’s immediate entourage, as well as through family ties and her inclination towards the emerging reformed faith.

Outside Anne’s immediate family was the Duke of Norfolk, who for the time being saw Anne’s rise in the King’s favour as advantageous for his family and for himself. A number of the King’s Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and personal friends, were also emerging as supporters of the Boleyns. All of these men were present that day, and as I glanced over my shoulder, I could easily pick them out within the congregation; Thomas Wyatt, William Carey (my sister’s husband), Sir Henry Norris, William Brereton, Sir Richard Page, and Anne’s second cousin, Sir Francis Bryan. Then, of less importance politically, but of immense value to me, had been my fellow maids of honour, my friends who daily shared my troubles and my triumphs; Nan Gainsford, Joan Champernowe and Mary Norris, the wife of Sir Henry; by that time, I had worked out that Mary was also a cousin of Anne’s, who had served with her in France, first as a maid of honour to Mary Tudor, then latterly to Queen Claude.