The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (27 page)

29 August 1533

Diary,

It has been a glorious day! All drums and happy trumpets, banners flapping in a gentle August breeze, I took my place upon the royal barge. Henry, good cheer and kisses (all arguments forgot) was there to see me off. His embrace was warm and strong. He whispered in my ear, “I love you, Nan. We are one in this boy,” and placed his hand, a blessing upon my belly. Several “hurrahs” and he was gone.

The moment was mine alone, more lovely somehow than my Coronation, trees swaying on the banks, the River Thames all green and rippling gold. The flooding tide lifted us and bore us down the winding course toward Greenwich, now all lined with common folk. They waved but did not smile. I wished they would have smiled at me, their Queen, her belly bulging with their Tudor heir. But most are loyal still to Katherine and her girl. They will change when he is born, I’m sure and love me then, cry aloud for Queen Anne’s long life and happy health. Greenwich Castle’s brickwork wall and battlements were glowing red in sunset light when we arrived. Many Lords and Ladies waited on the shore in all their finery, come to help me take my chamber. This ceremonial had been prescribed many years before by Henrys father, first Tudor King. Mayhaps since that Crown was won through battle, not bloodline, he had wanted a ritual made of his children’s birthing.

The great river of all History, thought I then, ran beneath this royal barge and Henry, I, our child like tiny streams, had emptied into this and evermore were part of it.

With quiet pomp and muted revelry was I conducted to the chapel where my good friend Cranmer waited. I took Communion and these nobles did pray with him as he asked aloud that God send me a great hour. As we left I saw the Princess Mary, thin and stiff, her dark eyes following my progression. I smiled kindly at her as I went by, for I felt full enough of love to offer her some, but I could see she took the gesture as a taunt. Never mind, I thought, she wishes me and my child dead.

The gathered Lords and Ladies then escorted me to my Chamber of Presence, served me spice and wine and toasted to me heartily. My brother George was one amongst the men, bursting with much pride and happiness for me. I took his hand and whispered, “Loyal brother, think you that this will turn the tide with them and me?”

“I do,” said he. “When you are mother to the one day King it will be as if a veil were torn from all their eyes, and they will finally see the sweet woman who is my sister.”

I almost cried, such was the wave of grateful love I bore for George. But then before the tears began to flow, he and my uncle Lord Rochford each took a hand and led me to the door of my lying in chambers, bade me good luck and left me there. All gentlemen retired and my ladies followed me in and closed the door behind. As law prescribes from now till after birth I cannot leave these walls, and will see these cloistered women only.

The privy place was dark and airless, heavy tapestries covering walls and roofs and windows, all save one. I saw the narrow pallet bed where birthing’s done, the extra braziers to heat the room, bottles of parfum to cover the sticky smell of blood, and shuddered at the pots and basins, piles of linen torn in rags, a great array of midwives knives and dangerous instruments.

The other chamber was a far more cheerful place. My Bed of State was greatly carven and richly hung. I moved ahead in time and saw myself receiving high born visitors, a proud mother, sitting up amongst the fine lawn sheets in a mantle of deep crimson velvet furred with ermine. And when they’d paid respect to me, they’d view the little Prince asleep in his lavish Cradle of Estate, four pummels of silver and gilt, a cloth of gold and ermine lined counterpane.

They say my labor soon begins. I pray with all my heart for bravery, to not cry out, to steel myself against the pain. For there are those who wait outside this chamber door who long to hear me shriek in agony, they hate me so. Please, God, make me strong in my great hour and make my child a fine and healthy son.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

8 September 1533

Diary,

I have a daughter and she is named Elizabeth. Her birth, terrible and bloody, the witchlike midwives murmuring musky spells between my outspread thighs, had been a dark dream. My prayers for a son, sung over and over like an unheard mass were lost amidst my cries and curses. The crimson curtains of my stately bed hung damp, no breeze ruffling the rank and steamy air when in strode Henry, all smiles, the smell of celebration ale upon his breath, come to see his little Prince. He did not see my ladies cowering, whispering in fearful tones as they hid their faces, lest he see them and later remember them as accomplices to this evening’s crime. He only heard the lusty cries of his heir long wished for.

“Where is he, Anne? Where is my son?” The months, nay, years of strain were gone from his bloated features. He looked just then young and princely as he had when first he’d woo’d me seven years before. “Show me my son.” He looked round the room then, from lady to lady, stared at the gilt cradle and felt a cold and fearful draft at his heart.

“You have a beautiful daughter,” I said with what small fraction was left of my courage.

“A daughter,” he whispered. “A daughter?!” His eyes blazed with murder — my own, the child’s. I feared he’d take the tiny wrinkled babe and crush her head like some ripe melon. Smash her body against the bedpost till it was still and limp. His unspeakable anger was a terrible silent wave rearing up to crash down upon my bone weary shores.

“You,” he shrieked, “are a liar, liar! You promised me a
son
. For this whimpering cunt I have put aside my pious Queen, the love of my subjects and Rome! You, Madame, will pay for this girl!” And he strode, scarlet and sweating, from my chamber.

A son. That simple promise to Henry which kept alive our dream, our love, is to be my own great undoing. But O, some promises are hard to keep. Some promises are best never made. Some promises are lies we never meant to tell.

My mind spins like a paper wheel. What of the Nun of Kent and the “Tudor son” she clearly foretold arising from my belly? A
son
, she said, who would illuminate the British lands. Did I understand wrongly? Meant she by her words a heavenly orb? Could that “son” have blinded me to her true meaning? When I, no more than a skinny girl, stood in that spare Christian cell, the oracle’s half mad eyes darting this way and that, the prophecy spilling from her bitten lips, did I long to hear with so terrible a need that I took the meaning I sore desired? It must be so, for that soothsayer does never swear falsely. I am such a fool!

When they’d bathed and swaddled the newborn, tightly bound so only the face was seen in yards of cloth, they placed her in my arms. I looked down to see this creamy pink creature of my own destruction. She was wailing, toothless, struggling to be free from muslin bondage. Her eyes flew open and then I did gasp to see … they were Henry’s eyes! Henry’s angry eyes.

Elizabeth, O God, you are your father’s child. My womb, my blood, my prayers but your father’s rage. Will he let you live? Will he let me live? My innocent child, my daughter, what terrible world have I brought you into? These breasts of mine cry for you and in this dim warm moment I long for nothing more but to lay you down upon my heart and let you feed upon my mother love. But now she comes, your wet nurse, large and soft and comforting, and she wrests you from my aching arms. It is with a humble smile she takes you from me, but she knows with proud certainty that
she
will feel your mouth suckling, she will count your fingers, toes, comb the flaxen silk upon your head, dry the tears I’ll never see. No, they’ll not let me near you, child, for you will be a Princess reared. There’ll be curtsies, not kisses. Embraces through yards of stiff satin. Courtly speech, no tender words of love.

O Elizabeth, tiny and squalling, I hear you in the next chamber. Hear you, feel you, remember you still in my belly. I’ll ask to see you and they will bring you to me this night, but tomorrow you’ll be gone, sequestered in the royal nursery, so far away from here down dark and draughty passages. No crying infant let to mar Henry’s festivities, Henry’s council meetings, Henry’s lovemaking. Less and less will I see you. My breasts will dry and cease to ache for you. I’ll be made to sing and dance, chatter lightly with my ladies, play at cards. Be the Queen and never hold you.

I read once of a nameless but remembered Roman noblewoman, jailed in some black prison. Starved by her captors who meant to kill her this way, she was kept alive by her own daughter who came to visit daily, and fed her in secret. This good child, herself a new mother, every day hidden by the folds of her dress, pretending embraces, suckled her mother at her own milk heavy breast. The old woman never weakened nor died and when the guards discovered the ruse they were moved, perhaps by maternal memories, and freed her. Mother and daughter, daughter and mother. Cherished, cherished the other. O, Elizabeth …

Henry hates me now, says I’ve duped him, shamed him. All wild and grandiose tournaments and feasts for his little Prince’s birth are quashed, redrawn into a quiet round of toasts to the health of the Princess and prayers for my womb’s quickening with the desired son. And we will try again to make that son, your father Henry and your mother Anne. Rage with our bodies, one against the other and pray with every thrust that when next I come to this lying in chamber, it is with the promised boy.

But we will fail, always. I know this with a terrible certainty. The mad nun foretold my Tudor sun and when I look into your eyes, your fathers eyes, I know that sun is you, Elizabeth. You will shine on all the world with your light and glory, despite your fathers fury. Of this I’m sure.

My future flies at me like some dark shrieking wind. I am lost, child, but you are found. And you shall be Queen.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

12 October 1533

Diary,

Of late I have had an unhappy education. A pregnant Queen will be lied to for her health, nay the health of her child. I was kept ignorant of a great scandal — the Holy Nun of Kent at its center. She has been speaking out against me and the King, saying we shall come to no good end, with plagues upon our house, and that Henry’s marriage to Katherine is good. His Majesty is angry in the extreme, and Cromwell has had the nun arrested for treason. The Secretary has drawn up a list of her supporters and all tremble at the thought of their name on that list. There is talk that she will confess to corruption, that she has been led astray by divers courtiers, Thomas More amongst them.

I flop like a gasping fish on the sand. What shall I think of her? Has she lied or does she confess to escape a traitor’s death? Has she never had a true gift of sight, and were her words to me those years ago the ravings of a mad peasant girl made prophetess by Bishops hungry for miracles?

I believed her then, but I took her words the way I wished to hear them. Elizabeth will yet rule, I know this in my heart, tho my firm hand is necessary in the keeping of this promise. My husband the King has grown plainly weary of me, and I have no strength to rekindle his love. He is pleased enough with his little daughter, speaks to me of an Act of Succession which will promise her place on the throne before Mary, but only after the sons he thinks I will bear him. So I am mild and kind to Henry these days, and give him great encouragement in that law’s passage. The ones who hate me more than ever smirk and whisper that I follow at Henry’s heels like a dog. This knowledge gnaws at my guts but I must grovel, for I feel in my heart I will have no sons with Henry and I must preserve Elizabeth’s crown.

‘Tis strange to think on Elizabeth’s coronation day, for now she is so tiny and soft. Pink and gold, sweet eyes that recognize me as her mother, recognize my body as her home, tho few are the moments I may hold her close, and never may I lend her my breast to suck. But she knows me, folds comfortably into me, smiles at me. I love this child with a heart that needs no urging, like the one that loved young Percy, but greater. Whenever I am seated I call for her to be brought to me on a velvet cushion that is placed at my feet. All my ladies think she is beautiful, the flaxen ringlets, the warm satin skin that smells so new.

I begged Henry that we might dispense with convention, allow our Elizabeth to stay with us where we reside and not be sent from Court to her own household far away. But he scoffed at me.

“I like my daughter well enough, but she is a daughter, Anne. Do you not think you should spend more effort on making us sons than mooning over this girl?” He was cold when he said that, and empty … like a hedge maze in winter. I knew repeating my plea was useless, but I hoped his fickle mind would turn and he would relent, allow me the comfort of my babe.

“Royal children are sent to their own household when they are but three months old,” I said. “These rules are made by men who know nothing of a mother’s need to hold her child, Henry.”

He turned on me then, roaring like a baited bear. “This is the ritual of Kings, Kings! And you shall forbear to contradict them, Madame!”

I fell to my knees and kissed his hand to calm him, murmuring apologies. I am ashamed to be brought so low, but I will not endanger Elizabeth with my arrogance.

Yours faithfully,

Anne