The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (13 page)

25 April 1527

Diary,

I have writ assent to marry Henry in a letter and have sent therewith a jewelled brooch to seal that new agreement. ‘Tis a picture of a lady in a stormtossed sea. This lady I perceive as me, who knows the perils of such a promise ‘twixt our selves, and still braves that violent sea in some flimsy ship named Love.

Love. I declared that state to him in my letter. I vowed a love as rare as his, but this was a lie. Tho I could never wish to have suitor more devoted or more passionate, and tho the gift he makes to me — to be the Queen — is more than I have ever dreamt, in my deep heart the place where truest feelings rest… I do not love him. My fervent hope, my prayer to God is that the day will come my heart will open like a rose in spring does open to the sun.

Till then, altho I’ve promised him my self, I still refrained from any pledge of us bedding ere a marriage binds us legally, that tho I most desired him, my virtue would forbid such tender congress. In this matter I spoke half truly. I should desire him. My future husband is a handsome man to any lady’s eye — broad shouldered, solid chest and well muscled legs. A good jaw and healthy cheeks. He is fair, golden reddish hair, curly and yet abundant. Fine blue eyes that have a sparkle to them. But best of all, his mouth. Lips full and supple, teeth strong and white, breath sweet. I do enjoy the way he kisses me with that mouth — hard, insistent, soft then playful, and the way he smiles and laughs with it. I think that when he does, he is most beautiful of all men that I have known.

I asked my Sister Mary of Henry’s prowess as a lover, but she keeps her counsel. So unlike her this closed mouth, so I poke and wheedle, coax and make her giggle but to no avail. She will only say that he’s prodigiously endowed. But that’s no news to me for I can feel the rod of hardness in our chaste embraces.

Does he love me truly? I believe he does. Will he make me Queen? I believe he will. O, Diary, I am grateful for this place to write in all confidence, for I have no friend whom I may trust with all these wild thoughts, outrageous events. You are my great secret and I shall guard you with my life.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

6 May 1527

Diary,

Having returned to Court I am held in such high estate as not before, this stemming from the King’s open love for me and his attentions paid regularly. Most believe I am his mistress in both body and in spirit. None, not even Wolsey, will believe the truth, that I keep us chaste and that when Henry’s will be done, I should be not concubine … but Queen.

But Queen or mistress, still my fortunes here amongst the highborn lords and ladies have grown substantially. They now come and seek my favor knowing how I have King Henry’s ear. They call me friend.

“O Mistress Anne, if you please, my brother’s son could use a good word in seeking a position in the Court.”

“Good Lady, how lovely you are looking today.” (He’ll kiss my hand, then.) “May I speak with you about a piece of woodland that is under siege by poachers and needs policing from the King?”

O how I enjoy the grovelling. They must think me very stupid, that I would not remember how not long ago these same grand folks held themselves far above me — I the daughter of a common tho ambitious man, sister to the King’s whore.

Yes, even Father’s paying homage in his way. Sending every day the jewellers, women to care for my hair, silk women to my rooms. Always miserly before, he makes very sure the King’s favorite lady looks the part. He tries to speak of how it is between the King and me, but I will not divulge how our liaison holds together. My Father dies to know. If I were the green girl I was before he’d box my ears, send me sprawling cross the floor, receive timely answers to all that he had asked. But I am no longer that child, and tho it gall him, still he holds me with a certain reverence, a fear. How very sweet this is.

Most strange to me is how Katherine, whose waiting lady still I am, regards me. She is neither deaf nor blind, must know my place in Henry’s heart, yet treats me kind as ever. As I tend her daily needs I watch her closely, realize that here lives the woman who in all the world loves best the man who loves me. She cannot know what he intends for her, cannot know. For even if she knew his depth of love for me, she would see me only as a mistress, nothing more. For Kings, by ancient custom, are allowed that pleasure. Sometimes I feel a pain for her and stand inside her mind. She loves the King as I loved Harry Percy, maybe more since I was just a girl and Henry’s been her beloved for many many years. I was made to watch, altho from far away, as Percy wed and bed another, as she must every day endure her husband’s infidelity.

I should not think too long on this nor on my vast disloyalty to my Queen, or I will loosen my resolve. I must stand with Henry in his firm belief that England’s greatest need is an heir, a boy, a son that I will give him, not his barren wife.

Too much of late I give myself to worrying. It seems that time goes by and naught is done regarding this divorce. I know the King is elsewhere occupied. The French envoy that’s here to make a treaty tween France and England (and war upon Charles the Emperor) is foremost on his mind. Each and every day he and Wolsey sit for hours scheming, making plans and then convene for meetings of diplomacy with Frankish ministers for argument and bargaining.

When Henry comes to me in evenings after these dealings, I see the strains that crease his brow and hear the weariness within his voice. If he and Francis do not join in force against the Emperor, this man will surely rule the world. Already German lands and Spain are his. Charles holds as hostage Francis’ two sons as he once held the King of France himself. Some evil trade — his freedom for his sons’ imprisonment.

What an irony. France and England, ancient enemies, now made to join their forces or face defeat. Little Princess Mary is to be a pawn in these bargainings. She’ll be wed to one of these captive sons when he is freed, combine the might and majesty of two lands in matrimony.

I often wonder how these things will change when I am Queen, mother of Henry’s son. But for now I know the politicks must still proceed like all is well with King and Queen, else the chink within the armor will mean death to all the bargaining. I will keep my silence, trust that Henry’s word is good.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

20 May 1527

Diary,

Patience I own was never my foremost virtue and it has vexed me sore to see my fate taking second seat to French and English bargaining. But negotiations finally done, a banquet and a celebration in the French envoy’s honor then was planned, the likes of which had not been seen since the famous celebration — the Field of Cloth of Gold. I made my own plans, stood for hour upon hour in fittings for a gown that would outshine all others. I accosted my father for several jewelled necklaces, bargained with a parfumier for an essence said to work exotic spells.

In recent days I had befriended Maurice Mamoule, then secretary to the chief negotiator Vicomte de Turenne. He remembered me, a scrawny girl of twelve in Francis’ Court and was delighted now to see how I’d risen in my influence, tho he believed as all believed that I was Henry’s whore. This did not lower me in his eyes, coming as he did from so debauched a Court, rather raised me high in his regard. He’d kept me well informed of all the goings on, and in the few days before the banquet, said official rumor in his circles held that Henry might discard his wife. I bade him tell me more. The French envoy believed, as Wolsey hoped (for Wolsey championed France) that Henry’s choice would be my French childhood playmate Renee, a Princess born and raised. My heart leapt. For word was out that Henry meant to rid himself of Katherine. And this French princess meant nothing to the King. She was unnaturally short and limped from a deformity. Henry, I knew, would never tolerate so imperfect a mother for his many perfect sons.

So I dressed with joy for that celebration, all in shiny black and deep purple trimmed ermine, causing some stir amongst the other ladies with my gown and jewels and scent, whilst making way with them at Katherine’s side to the feast. What a day and night we had. Henry was magnificent in slashed yellow silk and diamonds, far too large for life, voice booming welcome to his guests, smile telling all of his French success.

The tiltyard was more grand than I had ever seen. Very long and hung with gaudy tapestries of purple fruit and flowers, cabinets filled with gold and silver plates and goblets as if to say, Look, here is our wealth, you are well to throw your lot in with us. First there was the jousting, very fierce and spirited, infused with dreams of future wars it seemed to me. Then several masques, one in which the Princess Mary played a central part.

She looked frail, younger than her eleven years inside her gilded garments, the thrall of rubies, emeralds, pearls. Her small voice faltered not at all, she spoke her lines with utmost dignity, so unaware her usefulness as royal pawn was coming to an end. At the banquet King and Queen presided grandly side by side. I watched and saw the love that flowed a river from Katherine’s source to Henrys raging sea, but never did one drop of that oceans love return to her. His eyes followed me. I was careful, taking my attentions elsewhere from the King. But each and every time I chanced to look his way, there were his eyes trained upon my self. Others saw him watching me. Katherine pretended not to see.

Just past midnight all the Lords of France emerged, now dressed as Venetian noblemen in royal blue and black velvet. The music filled the fragrant moonlit garden and the dancing was begun. First dance Henry bade Vicomte de Turenne to pair with Princess Mary. She bowed most gracefully and took the floor with him. Her mother glowed with warm Spanish pride. You could see her then expecting Henry to take her own hand. But in a trice her smile turned bitter. For Henry’d made his way cross the floor to none other than my self, and then for all to see extended out his hand. As terrible for my Queen that moment was, was wonderful for me. I met his eyes, thanked him silently with all my heart and took his hand. He held firm and as we moved to center I could feel no trembling there, just strong resolve. We took up the music and leapt into the galliard — a perfect moment — he’d publick made his love for me.

Yours faithfully,

Anne