The Heretic’s Wife (17 page)

She was aware of every eye in the room watching, speculating on the
king’s public gesture of affection. She was glad she’d worn the yellow brocade gown and the green satin sleeves lined with miniver. The fur was warm in the overheated hall, but the matching black velvet bandeau embroidered with emeralds and golden thread made her dark eyes look brighter. The gown was Henry’s favorite and the headpiece and sleeves had been a gift from him.

Henry mounted the dais and seated himself in the high-backed chair on the platform directly in front of Anne. More scraping and shuffling, and the courtiers settled into their seats.
That’s it. That’s the worst of it,
she was thinking as she smiled reassuringly at Henry. It was a see-it-is-better-this-way smile. He smiled back at her briefly—that mischievous, bedevilment grin—that usually augured ill for somebody. She was wondering who was the target of his scheming this time—her archenemies perhaps—when he lifted his glass and, staring right at Anne, shouted, “Master of the Hall, a toast to the lovely Lady Anne Boleyn who favors us with her presence.”

Anne, though she felt her face flush with embarrassment, stared back at him, refusing to drop her gaze in some hypocritical pose of maidenly modesty. He always said he liked her spirit; well, she would show it to him. She stood up and curtsied deeply in one graceful swoop, her elbows almost brushing the floor. A diffident applause broke out among the courtiers. Without removing his gaze from her, Henry lifted his goblet and drained it, then laughed as exuberantly as he drank.

Fill up that majestic belly, Henry,
she was thinking, for she knew he would send for her at evening’s end and the more he ate and drank, the less trouble she would have fending off his too amorous advances. He would as like as not fall asleep mid-wooing and she would be spared her increasingly awkward and even dangerous evasive maneuvers.

As the musicians began playing and the servants poured wine at the other boards, Anne considered her enemies on the dais. Beneath lowered lids, she watched Wolsey, the man she hated most in the world, the man who had banished her lover from court, watching her from his place on the dais, his face a curious blend of disapproval and disbelief. She noticed, too, how the king ignored him.

How is it, my lord cardinal, to feel the heat of the king’s disfavor? If I have any influence you will know more than disfavor. And I will have influence. You banished in disgrace my sweet Percy, sent him to his father with his tail tucked between his legs like some sniveling pup, instead of the glorious youth of my dreams. Well, who is the silly one now, my lord archbishop? If this silly daughter of a knight cannot have a lord perhaps she shall have a king.

Thomas More flanked the hated cardinal on one side. At the toast in her honor he had lifted his glass but had not raised it to his lips. Not an oversight, she was sure. But on the other side sat Secretary Thomas Cromwell, his expression far different from the stoic faces of his companions. He was almost smiling. It was rumored among the courtiers that he had secret Lutheran sympathies, which would explain his singular lack of antipathy toward Anne. Or perhaps he was just another of the many sycophants who always smiled at the king’s actions. Whichever, she was cultivating a tentative alliance with him, contriving to gain his approval with smiles and entreaties for his opinions.

Her brother George interrupted her thoughts. “Father would be pleased to see how the house of Boleyn basks in the royal favor,” he whispered. “A boon for us all, thanks to you, dear sister. I’ll drink to that,” he said, raising his own goblet to be filled by the passing steward.

“Shush, George. You gloat too openly. A king’s favor can be as fickle as his desires. Much good it did our sister. All she got from her alliance with the king was his bastard. Watch about you and learn who your enemies are.”

“Oh Annie, you are shrewder than Mary. She gave it away too freely. The pleasure is more in the chase than the catch. Here, have some of this comfit. It is the same first course as is served at the king’s board. We are favored even over Lord Suffolk, the king’s jousting partner.” He nudged her shoulder and gave a snort of derision. “Look at him. He is stabbing at his dry salet as though it were some peasant’s fare.”

“He’s lucky to be sitting where he is. Henry has been upset with him since—”

“Lady Anne.” The majestic voice from the dais boomed loudly enough for everyone in the hall to hear. The music stropped abruptly. “Is your first course to your liking?”

She stood up, this time dropping a perfunctory curtsy, conscious of many stares boring into her. “It is delicious, Your Majesty. Thank you for inviting us.”

“Then, please, sit back down and eat it. Keep your brother dear company.”

Little gilded cake crowns were being placed before them. “Shall we eat these or wear them?” Henry mocked loudly, and removing the golden coronet he wore, replaced it with the cake.

Beside her, George looked uncertain, then reached for his little cake
crown. She put her hand over his and shook her head, then whispered, “The king does not respect those of whom he makes fools.”

Nervous laughter wafted through the hall as some followed suit, but she warned George with her eyes. Henry was playing at farce, leading the more vacuous among them to follow his lead so he could later mock them.

“Troubadour, we would have a love song for the ladies. Play.”

The king waved at the air with the cake, which he had removed from his head. He pretended to take a bite as, grinning, he scanned the boards to see who would follow. He laughed uproariously when half the courtiers chomped down on the cakes that probably by now were crawling with head lice, then he gestured impatiently for his cupbearer to refill his goblet. Though the evening was young, he appeared quite drunk—but she could never be sure. Sometimes he feigned ignorance or inebriation to lull his enemies into carelessness.

She hoped he was too drunk to notice that Sir Thomas More had ignored the whole fiasco while fastidiously scraping the gilding from his crown cake, as though it were some kind of foul poison, and then eating it. The expression on his face showed that he disapproved of the king’s idea of a joke or of gilded cakes or both. Not that she cared to spare Sir Thomas the king’s disapproval, but who knew where such a scene might lead? Verily it would end with her at the center being pulled like a bone between the quarreling dogs under some of the boards.

The lute player began strumming once again and the opening strains of a familiar melody wafted through the hall.

“Do you like love songs, Lady Anne?” Henry’s voice boomed.

Anne stood up again. She was becoming annoyed at all this popping up and down like a court jester in a box. He was doing it on purpose. He was peevish because she was not beside him as he had wanted.

“All ladies like love songs, Your Majesty. I am no different,” she said as gently as she could despite her annoyance, hoping to soften his irritation with her own mild tone.

“Then pray you give your liking or no of this one. Your king has written it and would have it sung for your pleasure.”

“My family is much honored, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again deeply, watching how the silk folds of her yellow kirtle caught the candlelight to best advantage.

She was ever cautious of her movements, taking care that she did all with grace. She was no great beauty by fair, blue-eyed court standards—as her
detractors never tired of pointing out—and she knew it. But she knew, too, where her assets lay and how to accent them. She had pushed her small round bosom high above the square ribbon-bound neckline and was aware that he could see it from his seat to best advantage when she curtsied low. Her knees were becoming fatigued with so much dipping, but even from several feet away, she could almost feel the heat from his desire.

The singer began. The plaintive lyrics floated out across the hall. “Alas, my love, you do me wrong to cast me off so discourteously . . .”

Anne felt her face flame. The king was courting her openly, flagrantly, right here in front of his whole court even when she had warned him. Katherine had many supporters in this room, not to count the many staunch Catholics who feared the growing influence of a reform-minded favorite. Like Wolsey. Like Thomas More. She could feel the resentment they dared not show openly burning as resolutely as her own hatred for the cardinal.

She maintained her posture throughout the song, listening to the lyrics, wishing she were back in the French court, laughing with the ladies-in-waiting, or riding across the flower-strewn meadows of Hever Castle, or huddled with her tutor in the Netherlands, debating theology, or, best of all, stealing kisses with sweet Percy outside the queen’s dressing room—wishing she could be anywhere but here being made a spectacle of.

“Greensleeves is my one desire.”

Her face felt as though it would crack from the false smile. Her lower limbs were almost numb. Then came the refrain.

“If you intend thus to disdain, it does the more enrapture me.”

And when I am your queen, what then?
She thought of Katherine on her knees for hours in her papist chapel, praying for her husband’s return.

The love song ended and applause broke out among the courtiers and cheers of “Bravo” and “Huzzah.” The king waved the guests to silence.

“Lady Boleyn, what think you of your king’s musical offering?”

She heard a sharp intake of breath at the board closest, imagined the knowing glances and the nudges, the whispering behind hands.

She lifted her head, her chin jutting boldly forward. “Sire, I think you are a man of many exceptional talents. This is but one example.”

He frowned down at her. It was as though the great company disappeared and they two were alone. “God’s blood, woman, what does that mean? Stand up and say to your king directly. Do you like the ditty ‘Greensleeves’ or do you not?” he shouted, enunciating each word carefully, his tone demanding.

Anne raised herself as gracefully as possible, surprised her limbs would even work at all. Gloating expectation laced the silence in the hall. She could almost see the eyes behind her squinting in ecstasy, hear the thoughts that whirled around her. Was this the moment that the king’s mistress would finally get her comeuppance? She did not raise her voice. Let the sycophants strain to hear until their ears fell off.

“Everything Your Majesty does is to my liking. The lyrics fall upon my ear unlike any music I have ever heard or am like to hear again—unless, of course, Your Majesty bestows another gift upon us.”

He scowled at her as though he were trying to make sense of what she said, then broke into a broad grin and laughed loudly. “Cupbearer,” he called. “Fill me up again. My muse has spoken and I must fortify myself.”

Some among those assembled responded with subdued laughter. Others were tentative in their agreement.

During the remainder of the meal, Anne did not have to stand again but fiddled with her food in silence, half listening to George prattle on beside her about his ambitions at court. The room grew overheated. She longed to remove the furred sleeves but knew her enemies would seize upon it. She could almost hear their prattling tongues, their snide laughter. “The king sang a love song to his Lady Green Sleeves whereupon she promptly removed them.”

Henry finally stood up. Once again there was a scraping of chairs and a scrambling of feet as the courtiers stood. With a loud belch the king left the dais, a groomsman on each side of him to steady him. More and Wolsey followed shortly after but left through separate archways.

Only Thomas Cromwell was left at the king’s board. Anne looked up to find his speculative gaze turned on her. When she did not turn her gaze away, Cromwell raised his glass and smiled.

The king did not call for her for two days. But Secretary Cromwell did.

Kate counted only four in the little shore party gathered on the shingle beach. Five should have been waiting by the signal fire, but in spite of his protests, John Frith, feverish and ill and scarcely able to stand, had been put to bed by Lady Walsh.

“But I have to meet the ship. Sir Humphrey has arranged it. Tyndale will be expecting me,” he said, staggering as he tried to stand. “If I stay here, I shall put you all in danger.”

Lady Walsh had exchanged glances with her husband, who placed his hand on Frith’s shoulder, forcing him back down. “There will be another ship. You cannot go as you are. You’ll never stand the voyage.”

“William would hold us responsible if anything happened to you. We owe it to him,” Lady Walsh had said. “At least, to see that you are cared for until you are strong enough to travel.”

Kate was grateful for the warmth of the fire. The night chill penetrated the finely woven fabric of her full skirt and thin shawl, but she was glad to be in a dress again.

“It’s your choice, of course, my dear, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t act as yourself in your brother’s behalf,” Lady Walsh had said, as she pulled out a simple gown of soft gray wool. “Here. I think you are my daughter’s size,” she’d said, shaking out the skirt and then adding a lace cap and kerchief. “I assure you we will not be the only two in skirts to meet the boat. Local women feed their children by selling the cloth they weave in their cottages, and they are not eager to pay the king’s export tax.”