Le Temps Viendra: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (35 page)

By that time, I had been increasingly experiencing flashes of what I was sure were Anne’s memories; often these were of her dancing in a grand and sumptuous room accompanied by dashing and gallant partners; memories I assumed were from her days at the French court in the service of Queen Claude. In those memories were elegant and sweeping movements, with leaps of great lightness and delicacy as if Anne was being carried by an angel’s wings. Yet when I practiced the dance with my ladies, I also found myself drawing boldly upon my modern day heritage; for I too had learned the art of dancing; ballet as a child and later in life, flamenco. Together, the three of us had spent many happy hours in my Privy apartments; weaving my knowledge of dance with Anne’s. During those heady days at Windsor, I created new dance moves which both awed, and sometimes scandalised, my 16th century friends and which, I would later find out, would make their way into the iconography of Tudor dance.

With my two ladies standing slightly behind me and at either side, I kicked off my shoes, which I knew was a scandalous thing to do in its own right. There was a sharp intake of breath from the elderly Earl of Shrewsbury, who was shocked at my audacity and wanton behaviour. However, Henry’s gaze lingered a moment on my stocking-feet and ankles with only appreciative lust in his eyes. Playing the moment for all it was worth, with great coquettishness, I indicated for the music to begin. My ladies and I began our dance of seduction; the like of which had never been seen before at Henry’s court. I realised early on that neither Nan nor Mary possessed the same innate acceptance of their sexuality as Anne, whose mastery of the art was unsurpassed. With some amusement, I often wondered whether Anne’s famed allure resulted from the overtones of the modern day, progressive woman that had come to share her body; did this create her utterly unique essence of womanhood which eclipsed and eluded her contemporaries?

Watching how other men fell under Anne’s hypnotic spell, Mary and Nan relentlessly quizzed me about my sexual appeal. So I worked hard to teach them all that I could of how to move their body, use their eyes and shape their energy to mesmerise any man.

From time to time, I would see flashes, mere fragments of memories of an exquisitely dressed lady teaching me all she knew of courtly love and graceful demeanour. I strongly suspected that this was Margaret of Austria, into whose care Anne had been entrusted for a year, probably at the tender age of twelve. I realised how impressionable Anne must have been at that age; influenced deeply by the presence of so great a lady, one who could enthrall even the likes of the dashing Charles Brandon. And so, as the three of us moved in graceful unison we concocted a spell of heady sexuality; lighting a flame of burning desire which ignited not only the King, but every man present.

With our final steps, we three ladies sank into a deep curtsey. For a moment, there was utter silence; our audience was entranced. However, unsure of how our provocative movements would be received by the King, I did not dare move, my eyes remaining downcast as my body pulsated from both exertion and anxiety. Had I pushed the boundaries of decorum too far? Would Henry rebuke and shame me in public for my boldness?

Suddenly, Henry burst into enthusiastic applause; with the spell finally broken, the remainder of the party followed in kind, lauding our grace and elegance with shouts of their appreciation. I raised my gaze to meet Henry’s as he beckoned me forward. Reaching him, the King stretched up, playfully grabbing me by the waist and pulling me down onto the soft cushions next to him. I shrieked with pleasure, as Henry drew me close and kissed me tenderly on the lips.

Seeing our affinity, Henry’s courtiers discreetly continued with their own conversations, whilst I lay stretched out my back staring up at the flawless sky. For a moment, I watched a bird of prey circling about above us, twisting its tail feathers this way and that, steering itself effortlessly as it was carried upwards on the rising thermals; its occasional and haunting screech declaring its dominion across the forest canopy. I closed my eyes, basking in the warm sun as it fell upon my face. When I opened them again, I found Henry looking down at me with eyes full of lust and desire. I shivered with exquisite pleasure as he traced the tip of his finger across my cheek, down my neck, across my breast, finally coming to rest his palm on my belly. It was a delicious moment of intimacy between us; disinheriting the world, we lay locked in a silent embrace, as if trying to uncover the deepest essence of the other’s soul. The King spoke softly and in wonder,

‘You sing like Orpheus, you dance like the goddess Terpsichore and you hunt like Diana. Where did you come from Anne Boleyn? It seems to me that you are not of this world.’ I nearly laughed aloud, for Henry did not realise just how close he was to the truth! His gaze softened, a small frown appearing across his forehead as he tried to fathom the mystery that was Anne Boleyn. ‘Forsooth, I have never met another woman like you; the sexiest creature to walk this earth. Methinks that God himself has poured into you all the sweetness of womanhood and sent you to me as a divine blessing.’

I saw in Henry’s bright blue eyes, beyond the power of his majesty, a small bewildered child afraid that such a blessing he did not deserve. The King held me there in silence, before he spoke the words that I had not yet heard spoken with such raw intensity. ‘I love you, Anne. Swear to me that you will never leave my side.’ The naked simplicity of Henry’s declaration suddenly broke open a deep well of emotion that I had pushed away into the darkest recesses of my mind. I was engulfed by the reality of my situation. I knew that Henry’s request highlighted the shocking nature of the betrayal, of his betrayal, which lay ahead of Anne. I could not help but turn my face away from him.

‘Anne, what is the matter, do my words offend you?’ Henry hesitated for a moment, slightly unsure of himself; ‘Do you not love me?’ I looked at the King and despite myself, and all that I knew lay ahead for Anne, my heart burst with love for him. ‘Yes, Henry, I do love you,’ and this, God help me, was and still is, my truth.

Chapter Eighteen

Palace of Placentia, Greenwich

May 1, 1528

May began with a flurry of colourful pageantry. The whole court was swept up in anticipation of the forthcoming May Day celebrations, the chivalric centrepiece of which was the annual May Day joust, to be held at Greenwich Palace. It was a time of great rejoicing by every Englishman, for the day heralded the beginning of summer. After the severe and bleak winter that had held England in icy subjugation, spirits were high; it was time to revel in the abundance of Mother Nature and to give oneself over to the pursuit of courtly love and romance. Yet finding myself ensconced in my privy apartments overlooking the Thames, I had not felt the slightest inclination to give myself over to anyone or anything.

Despite my best efforts to control my temper, I was angry with the King. On the previous day, Henry tried, as tactfully as he was able, to break the news that on such a day of public festivity, Katherine was to accompany him to the joust; as Queen she must preside over proceedings. Henry’s greatest love was jousting and he participated fearlessly in the lists with great honour and skill. Perhaps I had no right to feel this way, but I found it virtually intolerable to think of Henry paying courtly deference to his Queen; that in his hour of triumph, I should yet again be consigned out of sight of the court, no better than a common whore.

I was overwhelmed with intense jealousy, and within moments exploded into a fit of unbridled rage. I ranted at the King; the toll of suppressing and managing my emotions over many months, of having to share him with Katherine, suddenly coming to an intense head of pressure, which burst forth in a torrent of anger and frustration. With a raised voice, I harshly accused the King of caring little for my feelings, for using me to fulfil his own needs with scant regard for the difficulty of my position. How could he treat me thus? The vehemence of my tirade reduced the King to tears, as he begged me to forgive him and vowed his eternal love. While my anger eventually abated, my frustrations simmered dangerously in my breast. Not even my mother, who had visited me earlier that morning to try to soothe my fiery temper, had made any headway. So I was left alone with only the tempest of my mind to keep me company; I had no wish for another encounter with the Queen’s Majesty.

I sighed heavily, leaning slightly forward and resting both my palms and forehead against the smooth glass of the window next to where I was standing. On the Thames below, a pair of mated, mute swans guided their clutch of newly hatched cygnets downstream passed the King’s Royal Apartments with regal dignity. At that moment, I longed for such a state of grace to take hold within my being. It was frustrating, as I had tried so hard to live up to everyone’s expectations; to compress and contain my emotions; my rage, frustration, jealousy and love into a small dark place beyond the reach of my consciousness. I earnestly invited an ocean of patience, equanimity and grace to fill the void which I had sought to create in denying myself. Yet these visitors stubbornly refused to accept my invitation. So instead, I was left to drown in a swell of my own negativity. The worst of it was that I was deeply cross with myself. I knew for the sake of the love that I bore for Henry, and which he bore me, that I would have to learn to cultivate graciousness and poise in the face of such challenges. In many ways, I considered myself lucky, for up until that point, Henry had always rushed to placate me and assuage my anxieties; I only ever saw kindness and concern in his eyes. Yet, I was painfully aware that the strength of Anne’s character, so distinctive among the many docile English roses at court, the very dimension of her personality which so attracted and enthralled Henry, would ultimately be the very thing that drove him into the arms of another woman. It was as if I wanted to save Anne from herself, and I prayed fervently to God to deliver unto me the strength and patience I needed to face the vicissitudes of fate. But patience did not come. Gripped by the demons which seized my mind, I began to pace up and down in front of the window, arms folded in front of me, turning this way and that, continually tormented by the thought of Henry at Katherine’s side. In the vacuum created by Henry’s absence, it was easy to slip into a sea of paranoia; I was convinced that Henry would cast me aside having looked once more into Katherine’s eyes and discovered afresh the love that they once shared.

‘Madame.’ A soft voice interrupted the maelstrom of my thoughts; I looked up to find Nan standing at the doorway to the little parlour. ‘Yes, Nan. What can I do for you?’

‘Are you all right, Madame? I know how difficult it is for you when the King . . .’ Her voice trailed away awkwardly. Nan was a sensitive soul, empathetic and compassionate. She understood the unbearable pain that it caused me when Henry spent time with another woman, even if that woman was his wife. As I couldn’t bear to see my friend reflect my pain, I turned my back toward her and began pacing once more, one arm crossed in front of my body, the other bent up, biting anxiously at my fingernails. I was helplessly submerged once again by the relentless and dangerous currents of frustration which stirred my mind. Lost to myself, I did not notice that Nan was unsure of how to placate me, and had tentatively stepped forward, picking up the little vellum-bound book that I had earlier placed upon the sideboard. I did not hear her turn its crisp pages, drowned out as it was by the noise of the incessant chatter which filled my head. After some moments though, Nan spoke again,

‘Forgive me, Madame but . . . What is this book?’ I glanced over my shoulder.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, just . . .’ As I began to dismiss Nan’s curiosity, the significance of the moment struck me with a flash of intense clarity. Nan had just picked up the copy of ‘The Obedience of a Christian Man’ given to me by Edward Foxe when he had visited Hever Castle. Since it had been entrusted into my care by that gentle soul, I had immersed myself entirely in Master Tyndale’s treatise on how a Christian Prince ought to govern, and the excesses and unholy influence of the Roman Catholic Church. I knew why Anne was so fascinated by that text and why she and her father were clearly convinced that the words contained within it could hold the key to resolving the King’s Great Matter. At every possible opportunity, I closeted myself away, diligent in my task and willingly surrendering myself to the wisdom contained within it. Oftentimes, with no quills to hand, I found myself marking out relevant tracts with the tip of my thumbnail.

Fully awakened by the immediacy of the moment, I walked over to Nan with new resolve. Within her hands, my friend held the very seed of the English Reformation. Taking those hands in mine, I looked into Nan’s pretty blue eyes and spoke in earnest,

‘This is a godly book, Nan, and one which you
must
read. It is written by Master Tyndale.’ My friend made a delicate, yet sharp intake of breath. She knew only too well that the words contained within its pages were dangerous words indeed, and could cost you your life. I continued on speaking urgently. ‘It is the duty of every Christian man and woman to read such texts, for the truth contained herein will set a light burning so brightly in your soul that none shall be able to set it out; forsooth it is verily the word of God himself.’ It was clear that Nan had not been expecting such a book to fall into her possession, or for her mistress to entreat her so passionately to read it. I knew that Nan favoured the reformed faith, and I knew what fate had in store for this little book; for the first time that day, I felt a profound sense of calm within my being. I realised that I had been selfishly lost in my own small, self-centred world, but once again, I was reminded of the enormous stage on which Anne Boleyn played. The love affair between Henry and Anne may well be a fairytale; yet this was never to be an ordinary love; Anne was a catalyst in the events that would bring forth historical changes in English society. My friend smiled appreciatively at my words, finally taking the book and holding it against her breast as she spoke,