The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (29 page)

4 July 1534

Diary,

Are all men betrayers? Is there no faithful one amongst their sex? Rumor of a plot to poison the Lady Mary with a magick potion, and my self the executioner, made its vicious circle of the Court. Not wishing to give fuel to this false gossip, but needing some intelligence of its origin, I sent out my own spies who like ferrets returned to me with small bits of the lie which I pieced together into an entire beast. The Lady Mary is, as always, the heart of it with her complaints of feeling ill, believing its cause a foul potion in her food. And she, with no taster employed in her meager household, had no recourse but to eat that which was placed before her, or starve. The feet of the animal were all her faithful servants and supporters who ran swiftly with this news from Hatfield Hall to Court. The eyes of the beast were those of the driver, John, who saw and told of my meeting with the crone who spoke of potions at my carriage window In these days, just place any old woman near a potion and she is surely called a witch. But what of the mouth which gave teeth to this rumor? ‘Twas sour surprise even to one so schooled in treachery as me — none but Henry Percy, my old love in whose employ till recently was John the wretched driver.

Percy. Good love and friend who not so long ago conspired with my self in secret so that our past hearts’ marriage would never jeopardize my present one. I could at first not believe that he gave rise to this false plot. But I heard the talk told from several mouths, and then when at mass on Sunday past I caught his eye he quickly turned away and would not meet my gaze, I knew the truth of it. I will never know the reason he has turned on me, become my enemy. Perhaps the grey illness of his body turned its icy fingers to his soul. Perhaps he’s found a new author for the story of his bitter life — my self. Perhaps some obscure political advantage is his reward for my downfall. I do not know nor do I care to pursue it. I can only make denial of that murderous plot and mend what remains of the tattered fabric of my reputation.

To that end, as well to see Elizabeth, I rode to Hertfordshire and Hatfield Hall. Tho the grounds and gardens are vast and the forested hunting park rich with game, that house I like very little. ‘Tis red brick styled in the old fashion, all ugly battlements and turrets, cold and mean within. Methinks if this child had been a son, his royal residence would be much grander.

Keeping my daughter’s sweet presence as reward, I gathered my composure and benevolence and sent a greeting to the Lady Mary, requested that she pay a visit and honor me as Queen. I said frankly that if she did, she would be as well received as she could wish, and reacquainted with her Father’s good pleasure and renewed favor.

You would think that this girl who yearns so for the King’s love, would learn obeisance to that end. But no. The answer to my pleasant invitation came like a slap to the face — a dry note writ in her formal hand that she knew of no Queen in England other than her mother. And that should “the King’s Mistress Marquess de Pembroke” be willing to speak on her behalf to her dear Father, she would be most grateful. A cold hand squeezed my heart at her reply.

I called then for Mistress Shelton who overwatches the cursed bastard, and gave her new instructions that insubordination of any sort should be met with equal force of intolerance. “Slap her if you must,” I told her. “Let her feel the sting of the Queen’s displeasure as she already knows the King’s.”

With that I took my leave of all unpleasantness and hurried to the sunny nursery rooms where my Elizabeth slept swaddled in the great gilded cradle of estate. Her staff, four score strong, bustled about all in her pleasure — a dry nurse assembling the tiny garments made by several sewers and embroiderers, all manner of grooms and yeomen in their divers labors, three rockers who took their turns at the cradle.

My cousin Lady Bryan who is chief governess of this staff, came to greet me with nursery business of great import, happy for my timely presence. The babe’s wet nurse Agnes, who had suckled the Princess since birth, recently suffered from a drying up of milk in her breasts, and a new nurse demanded to be found. Several names were put before me with the women’s varied commendations, and Lady Bryan and my self spent good time on these deliberations as the wet nurse’s health and her demeanor are of great consequence. She need not be high born, but her family blood must be good, free from any lineage of criminality or madness. Even the meat and drink she takes at the time she gives suck to the child must needs be carefully watched, for the humors of her body do pass to the babe. Finally ‘twas agreed that Mary Gibbons of Hampstead would take the place of Agnes and that was settled.

My counsel was sought on another matter — this the coming of the French envoy who would in ten days time arrive to make inspection of the Princess, previous to betrothal with King Francis’ third son. Tho the bans will not be spoke for seven years, these diplomats require a measure of satisfaction in their intelligence of the candidate. The men shall view Elizabeth first in very rich apparel in state and triumph as a Princess, and later in her natural state for them to be assured of no defects in her body, as already malicious rumors of the child’s deformities have reached all the courts of Europe. Tho I loathe these customs making my daughter little more than royal chattel I have no recourse, and find some measure of joy in knowing she will marry to no less than a Prince of France.

So the fine work of the nursery sewers — garments and bedclothes for Elizabeth’s great occasion — were spread before me for my inspection. ‘Twas marvellous work and I took much delight in the shape and tininess of those garments, as well as their richness. Pale yellow satin stitched with threads of gold and silver woven into one Tudor rose signifying Elizabeth, hung between two larger Tudor roses for Henry and my self. The gowns were of the finest white silk and gossamer tissue layered over thick with French lace and trimmed with crimson ribbons and rosettes. And the cap, like a tiny crown, was studded all round with tiny diamonds and pearls.

Finally my sweet babe awoke and she was brought to me red faced, squalling heartily. She seemed overwarm in her tight muslin swaddling, so I had the nurse unwrap the binding. Once unbound she was wretched no longer and came soft and yielding into my arms. O, I do love this little girl, perhaps the one truly good thing I have made in my unhappy life. The afternoon was blissful and my only sadness came when it was time to ride for home. I might have stayed longer, but Henry looks kindly on neither my time spent at Hatfield nor the ride there, claiming it difficult and perhaps hurtful to my unborn child. I bow to his wishes face to face and argue little, keeping shrill tones from my voice, but I will not be kept from my Elizabeth and make this quiet pilgrimage as often as I am able.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

22 September 1534

Diary,

Schism with the Catholic Church hangs like a great cloud o’er an already stormy England. Henry’s subjects are raw from their compulsory oaths to faithfully and wholeheartedly uphold our marriage without consideration of any foreign authority or prince or potentate, and more oaths rejecting his marriage with Katherine, placing Elizabeth first in the succession to the throne. In cities and in villages they chafe at priests who preach the Pope is no more than Rome’s Bishop, and our own Archbishop of Canterbury the highest prelate under God for Englishmen. They do not take kindly to these changes. They are forced — every man and woman, high born and low, to swear on pain of torture, death, dismemberment that they love the “harlot” now their Queen, and deny their King is a tyrant and a heretic.

The Holy Nun of Kent who did at last recant her treasonous prophesies against the King and I was hung at Tyburn, cut down whilst still alive, bowels torn from her belly, body cut to quarters and each displayed in far corners of London. Her death haunts me. I see those mad eyes in my dreams. For her prophesies turned my life’s course and tho she’d changed her colors several times since, I still believe those early innocent words to me were honestly proffered, and of divine origination.

Thomas More stubbornly refused the oath in all its parts. To the Act of Succession he will swear but cannot — for his conscience will not allow it — deny the validity of the King’s first marriage. Clever man, he danced all round the oath, wishing long life to Henry, my self and our noble issue, but never granted that our marriage was legitimate. And on the subject of the King as most Supreme Head of England’s Church, he assuredly refused to swear, using as his argument Henry’s own early writings, the “Assertion of the Seven Sacraments,” claiming the Pope’s authority supreme. That in deed the Pope had placed England’s crown upon Henry’s head, and could therefore when he desired remove it. Henry was made furious by this reasoning and by Mores refusal to comply. He was soon arrested and his present home’s the traitor’s chamber of the Tower of London.

Henry grieves at More’s decision and imprisonment, and questions his own beliefs. But I defy this “conscience” of More’s which he holds so sacred and which will surely make a beloved martyr of him should he die of his treason. I ask, what’s the good of conscience if it lead you wrongly? A madman might follow his conscience that tells him to murder his wife and children. Should we then forgive him of his crime? More’s conscience, which the people hold in such high esteem, tells him that the Pope — a mortal man — is not just the Prince of Rome, but was placed on that throne by God himself, and should therefore have rights to command Kings in far off lands. Surely he is wrong, as Luther’s growing army knows. This Pope is a man, born of woman, and has no more of God’s ear than any other man or woman does.

Where was More’s conscience when he took the post of Chancellor knowing full well that Henrys course would one day make me Queen? Perhaps ‘twas in his purse which needed filling to support his ungainly family. And where was his conscience when he, so dependent on Thomas Wolsey for his early advancement, turned on the Cardinal in Parliament with such vicious and merciless claims, that even More’s supporters cringed from him?

I see the turmoil caused by Henry’s love for me. ‘Tis ironic, is it not, that his love is gone, yet England’s laws are changed, the King commands the Church and my daughter stands to one day take the throne. When I started on my course I would never have believed such a story. But it is so. And the story has no ending yet. We shall see how it unfolds.

Yours faithfully,

Anne