The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (32 page)

20 May 1535

Diary,

I am pregnant and new hope grows in me as a spring seed pushes for the light of day. Forgive me, Elizabeth, but my prayers of late are that this child’s a boy, Henry’s Prince and our saviour. This hope, together with a great need to endure, survive this chosen life, this fate, has born inside my head a master scheme which, once fulfilled, will restore my place and power on the throne. I must make the King love me once again. Find within this worn body and battered heart that bold and arrogant girl whose flashing eyes lured Henry deep within a dark maze of desire, and held him there for six long years. Find pretended lust for that once steely frame now grown mottled, fat and loathsome. But even more than body’s passion I must make him know that all his sacrifice and pain in having me was not in vain. That his proud plots and plans, his Great Matter and marriage to me did come to some good, after all was said and done, not merely death to friends, excommunication from the Church and hatred from his subjects. I will think on this a while longer, fix the details of intrigue within my head, for I cannot fail in this.

Niniane, my fool, makes high jest round my pregnancy. Methinks she must have borne children of her own to know with such perfection all the inward rumblings, weird cravings, painful pleasures that condition brings. One evening when she and I were quite alone in my bedchamber she jumped upon my bed and curling small into a ball, became the babe inside my belly, squalling, kicking, quite spoiled and demanding crisp apples, sugared newt’s toes and lullabies be sung to him. “I am the little Prince!” he cried (or so she cried for him). “I am Prince and future King and I am tired of the darkness. Bring me light! And sweets! And much jewels and gold, for I am my father’s son and desire above all else to be rich!”

Master Holbein has made a drawing of me, unbidden. Tho no one else would say, I knew it most unflattering, my face bloated with pregnancy, hair tucked up in a gable hood. Only Niniane on seeing this portrait cried, “Who is this matronly sow with several chins? Never you, Your swan necked Majesty!” When I said that it was in deed my self, she grabbed the offending picture and danced round the room with it singing a wild tune about Holbein’s appropriate punishment for so treasonous an act — being strung up naked by his two thumbs at Tyburn and the offending picture rolled and stuck up his arse. O, she does make me laugh, and in a way so strange brings a fair friendship, for in her bold humor lies Truth. And that is something rare, for few will share the same with me.

All queries that I make of Niniane’s own life she turns completely round about and makes jokes of them, keeping her self most private and mysterious. I wonder often on this woman, crude and wild who also shines with much intelligence and goodness. How did she come to this life? Who were her kin? What was her class? Perhaps one day she’ll say.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

7 June 1535

Diary,

My star has risen once again, and I am Henry’s only sweetheart. He dotes upon me more than ever now, keeping me close by his side in all things. I will tell you how this came to pass. First the child within me brought a healthy roundness to my hollow cheeks and what wrinkles round my eyes and mouth had appeared, I fought with several applications of quicksilver which, tho biting and malignant to the skin, did their wondrous work to leave my face smooth in its appearance. A fine white lead I used for paleness, then a touch of alum for a rosy cheek, and cochineal for lips did make me young and looking lovelier than I had for some time been. Nets and headdresses were put aside. My hair I wore long and unbound as I had in our courtship days. My gowns were all his favorite hues, deep russet, rose, gleaming black and emerald green. Jewels I chose for their compliment to me as well as sentimental value, those which he had given me when our love’d been most in bloom. I paid mightily for divers French parfums and bathing oils and cremes, so I would float in fragrant clouds wherever I would go.

Thus I presented myself to the King, at first in fleeting moments as I swept across a crowded chamber where he was. No words but some seductive smiles, a sideways glance, a look of admiration for him self. The May Day Revels did provide a sweet opportunity for me to shine. I was cast as Queen of the Spring, my gown a riot of silken flowers. In the masque I danced a graceful sprightly dance and sang a song which all applauded heartily. I was pleased to see the Kings gaze fixed not on his mistress, but glowing proud after his wife. When I took my bow I curtsied low in his direction, held his eyes and knew that he was once more mine for the taking. When the dancing had begun he crossed the room to ask for my hand and when we partnered to the galliard his kicks and leaps were like a young stag again. He was happy, I could see this clearly, and so that evening late I waited in my bedchamber and the King came to me.

As I fed him spiced wine before a blazing fire I found what courage I could, and was bold with him as I had been before love and marriage had weakened me. With my hands making soft work upon his temples I told him that if he thought honestly, he’d know that he was more bound to me than man can be to woman. That I had extricated him from a state of sin in his marriage to Katherine, and that without me he would never have reformed the Church. Moreover, in that reformation he had gained all the riches of the monasteries and was now the wealthiest Prince that ever was in England.

He listened close, leaning on the words I spoke, even said “Go on” and so I did. I handed him my hair brush and as he was wont to do when we were young, he brushed my hair for me, long smooth strokes until my hair was as a single bolt of black silken cloth. I told him his virility had given us another chance for our Prince. And then like Master Holbein, I painted a portrait with Henry and my self as allies who stood together on the one side, whilst all the world was drawn as if the enemy; the treacherous Emperor, unfaithful French, belligerent Pope, treasonously stubborn Katherine and Mary who behind his back still try to raise a mutinous army. I said that he and I had been torn from each other by cruel forces and wicked men who could never comprehend the strength of our union. Then I kissed him, rousing both the King and the man within him. He needed no further urging, fairly ripping off my gown, carrying me to bed.

I have known his body lately, so ‘twas no surprise that it was corpulent and foul with bulging veins and oozing sores upon his calves and thighs, but those times I had not pretended lust, but turned my face away and let him take his pleasure quickly. Now I summoned all my resolve, opened up my lying heart and made love with him. ‘Twas a test of my skill as actor for there is, with all honesty, no shred of real affection left for this beast I call my husband.

Once satisfied the King was most ecstatic, hope welled within his breast for our future, his son, England’s glory. He spoke my name again with great love, and I rejoiced silently that by my own hand I had once more changed my fate and with my daughter in my arms, stepped back from that dark abyss which beckoned us to it. Jesus be praised. He is surely with us.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

20 July 1535

Diary,

How is it that so good and learned a man conspires in his own execution? What sense is there to stand so faithfully to one principle against one to which all others conform, that death is his only choice? Confound Thomas More! He is dead now, his head stuck upon a pole on London Bridge keeping company with the heads of John Fisher and those Carthusian Monks. Could he not have sworn the oath and saved his life? And Henry, ah well, he has made a Catholic martyr out of More, all the better for his subjects to rally now around.

My Brother George and Father saw their executions. First Fisher, lately made Bishop of Rochester by the Pope, was so frail they say they were amazed that so much blood could pump from so skeletal a corpse. But ‘tis More’s execution which haunts my dreams and waking reveries. The long grey and tangled beard, his exhortations to the headsman not to miss his mark for his poor neck was short. Binding up his own eyes with linen ‘fore he laid his sick body flat upon the scaffold, as the block was low and very small. He even made a jest. Told his executioner not to cut his beard, for his beard was not a traitor. That great man, that silly fool lying on his belly waiting for the axe.

When the news was brought of More’s execution, the King and I were side by side at his gaming table. His face flushed hot and red and he raged, “God’s blood! The honestest man in the Kingdom is dead!” Then he strode from the gaming room and closeted him self for several days.

I swear I will think on this no longer. Push all terrible thoughts from my head, for I am still the Queen and have much high business to attend.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

10 August 1535

Diary,

This grese season Henry’s taken his round bellied Queen on summer progress with him and treats her most royally. I stand beside him on the hunting stage as in older days and we watch the deer run, shoot together, drink ale in the crisp afternoon and make more merry than we have in many years.

In the counties Winchester and Hampshire we were shown good and gracious hospitality by our noble subjects in divers manors, castles, hunting lodges. And tho heavy rains robbed us of many good hawking days, no angry mobs of country folk marred our leisure travels. My hope is that this forecasts some new acceptance of their Queen and baby Princess, but my heart says ‘tis fear of Henry’s heavy hand and forced submission which makes the common people mild.

Still, pleasures of another kind waited round several pastoral bends. The monasteries of Rochester and Dunst, with their treasure hoards of Roman artifacts, lay open for the King’s taking. Great heavy crosses made of gold, exquisite tapestries, gem encrusted miters, pillars, goblets for the mass, all obscenely rich and quite unnecessary for God’s worship, were carried off to London as plunder by the King’s men.

Mayhaps these new riches have turned Henry’s head, for he now speaks openly against those great Spanish stones round his neck. “I will no longer remain in trouble, fear and suspense I have so long endured on account of the Dowager Queen and Lady Mary,” I heard him say to Suffolk. “You shall see, the coming Parliament will release me therefrom. I will wait no longer!”

I restrained my tongue, for it sounded as tho the King needs no further persuasion toward their execution. Ah, ‘twould be a sweet day that those bitter harridans were gone from this world, and my Elizabeth safe from their disaffection. I pray that Henry bears resolves for this as great as was his to make me Queen. If so, our future is assured.

Now lodged at Wolfe Hall in Wiltshire County near to Wales, we are made to feel mightily at home within the Seymour family manor. Thomas and his fertile wife Margaret inspire us with their fecundity, ten living children — five daughters, five sons. Edward has been Henry’s Master of the Body some years now, and his sister Jane — quite ordinary and meek — was Katherine’s maid of honor. Her brother spoke for her, too shy her self to ask from us a place within the Court. Henry made it plain that it would please him to please Edward, so I will see about a place amongst my ladies for this little mouse.

In all honesty this summer progress pleases me, but ‘twill please me even more to hie for home and comforts of my Court. For this child must be fully carried, safely born.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

5 December 1535

Diary,

‘Tis beyond all belief and understanding, Henry’s late be-trayment. He has made a mouse his mistress! My maid of honor Jane Seymour, prim little cunt, is my new replacement. No one thinks she has much beauty, just a plump and undistinguished figure with a voice which you must strain to hear, she speaks so softly. She has no brains to speak of either. But no matter, her brother Edward Seymour does the thinking for her. Henry is besotted in a way I’ve not seen before, save with his love for me. But how does this plain Jane inspire such a passionate affection from the King? ‘Tis Edward’s scheme I’m sure, this wretched love affair which will grow his place in Henry’s Court. I fear my fickle cousin Francis Bryan, also Nicholas Carew, conspire with him in this plot. Is there no such thing as a loyal courtier? I think not. They have Jane playing my old game of love — tempting Henry with deft teasing, simpering smiles, promises of full submission to the King that lead not to bed but only chaste kisses and promises of many sons.

I admit I’ve lost all patience with the whore mongerer and cannot hide my loathing. Harsh vituperations fly from my mouth both in private conversation and whilst in public company. When he says “yea” I say “nay,” for any contradiction’s better now than none. I find new ways to irritate and make a fool of this pompous clod every day, laughing at his silly duckbill slippers, and outrageously bejangled costumes of ever widening girth that cause him to look the size of a wall. He’s commanded all his men to poll their heads and grow their beards and so, making use of Niniane’s observation, my self announced loudly at dinner that the King was like a bearded billiard ball.

I hurl abuse as well at Norfolk, long my enemy but now brazen with his appalling slander at my back. He’s said to have complained I’d spoken to him as one would not address a dog. But Niniane, upon hearing that, claimed my Uncle Norfolk should feel complimented, for I treated my dogs better than most people. To Mistress Seymour who boldly flirts with Henry, sitting on his lap, I gave a smart slap across the face and left a long red scratch.

Henry tolerates my vexatiousness with a strange calm which troubles Brother George, who fears the quiet ‘fore the storm. But I am ruled by some hellbent demon whose unleashed frenzy cannot be staunched. What cruel God decided my fate shall be the judge of further punishment, for the gauntlet has been thrown down and now the battle has begun.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

9 January 1536

Diary,

Katherine, once Queen of England, is dead and I am laid low. So violent and unnatural was her end with fearsome vomiting and stabbing pains within her stomach, some say she died of poison. But this is not true, for her only enemies were the King and I, and we are surely not responsible. Henry is beside him self with glee and shouted out with hearing news of her death, “God be praised that we are free from all suspicion of war!” ‘Tis true, Katherine’s nephew Charles the Emperor will find no reason for invasion now, so long as his cousin Mary’s safe from harm, for who can say which way fate will take the throne’s succession?

This, then, is why I’ve taken to my room, my bed, but even there find no solace. ‘Tis true I cried with happiness on hearing the report, even made a handsome gift to Master Ellis, the messenger who’d brought it. I rejoiced that Henry had Elizabeth carried here from Hatfield Hall to join the round of celebration mourning, had her dressed in yellow matching his doublet, and my gown, and that he’d come into the room where my ladies were dancing and joined in their wild gaviote, a man transported with joy. But when the King took our daughter in his arms and carried her about from room to room, parading her for all his men to hold and praise, I felt a sure and sudden sickness of the heart. I dismissed my ladies, and even Niniane could not assuage my grieving mind.

For this is what I all at once knew. Katherine’s death may be the end of me. Whilst she lived Henry could never divorce me, for that would mean him going back to her. But with the Lady dead and gone the King is free to marry whom he will. You say the King would not divorce me. I say think again! I see the loving way he looks upon Jane Seymours bland and peevish face. I hear the frequent gossip of his third marriage, which he always fails to contradict.

O Elizabeth, the man who shows off his golden haired and yellow bundle proudly to his courtiers may be the instrument of my destruction, and your own. Pray with me sweet girl in your child’s prayers that this babe inside of mes a boy. For good King Harry sees little to commend his family, and less intention to cherish them. Like a great storm blowing inland from the Western sea, I fear he is unstoppable and shall rage with marvellous fury till we all are drowned.

Yours faithfully,

Anne