The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (24 page)

23 October 1532

O Diary,

I swear that God in Heaven mocks me! What other thought is there to have, remembering this night past? This night which prophesied glory, promised fine reward for six years thoughtful sacrifice and two heroes of restraint. Henry, great King and very soul of virile manhood, when confronted with the object of his most sincere and ardent of desires who lay with open arms to hold him, loving lips to kiss him … failed. Completely failed.

Mayhaps ‘twas too much French wine. He’d drunk at supper, then continued in his bath, I think to gird himself with courage for the moment in which so much importance was imbued. Mayhaps the strain of all the years, our journey to Calais, his poor health were there to blame. Mayhaps — and this I fear the most — he looked at me naked and abed and saw his once fleeing prey no longer some sprightly object of pursuit, but just a soft trapped victim, doe eyes begging for a gentle death. Saw this and went cold. Even Henry’s terrible need for sons could not, in that moment, light again the huntsman’s fire quenched when I surrendered.

There was nothing to be done. No coaxing, teasing, holding tenderly to wait for desires yet to be aroused. I wished he’d been enraged, railed against this monstrous moment, as one strong passion sometimes births another. But he was shattered, broke beyond repair. His great bulk at once seemed shrunken, he could not meet my eyes which brimmed with tears — not at my own disappointment or sore surprise, but for my love’s miserable pain.

So our night of celebration and rebellious union — Henry the King and Anne Marquess de Pembroke soon to be the Queen — did we spend apart, I lying rigid in the great canopied Bed of State, he slumped in a chair by the window waiting for the day.

I must have finally slept for when morning’s light pushed open my eyes the King had gone from his apartments. I did not call for my ladies, but struggled my self to don voluptuous lengths of my black satin nightdress. I put on a false face — languorous and satisfied — as one would don a holiday masque to fool all, of my true identity. Returning to my rooms with good cheer I asked my ladies of the King’s movements. From their humble, downcast eyes I saw that Henry had donned the masque of some triumphant lion, and now all knew with certainty that this liaison was un fait accompli, my future as their Queen assured. They said my bridegroom’d ridden for Boulogne with a great complement of soldiers at first light.

My heart is heavy as a stone. What vengeful God repays such valiant efforts with so dismal a reward? I must needs pass these next four days in close and private company with this secret. No one can know of Henrys declination. No one at all. I believe his loss of strength is temporary. Mayhaps he needs the golden binding legal marriage brings to harden his “resolve.” But sadly, I believe that in that black moment of failing, a monstrous thing was born within the King that no future potent joining with this writer can erase. Like some diseased seed in hard winter earth planted, it threatens with the rain and sun of coming seasons then to sprout and grow into a hideous twisted vine that chokes all joy from life, all life from love.

But nothing’s served by so many haunting ruminations. My happy masque shall cleave to my face till its image in the looking glass will fool even my self. My back’s a steely rod, my gaze holds steady on the coming years. All, for better or for worse, shall be revealed.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

28 October 1532

Diary,

Here still in Calais. The rain pours and the wind blows. We are yet prevented from our crossing home to England. Much has happened since last I writ both in circumstance and change of heart. In Henrys absence on his journey to Boulogne to fetch the King I waited, battling despair, gathering strength from friends and family. George and Mary, so gay to be in France again, did organize a picnick outing on a windy day along the wild coast. Thomas Wyatt, faithful and consistent friend, still pays respectful court to me and wrote a verse for this occasion, telling of his passion for my self both unrequited and now finally quenched. It reads:

One cold afternoon Thomas and I sat before a fire alone and filled the day with quiet reminiscences. Ten years now since I returned to English Court from France and he made gift of you, my Diary. He did inquire had I filled the book, and I told him that I had writ verse and several memories, but not much more. Tho staunch a friend is Thomas Wyatt now, the cynic in me never wants all the truth of this book’s contents known.

The Kings arrived the day before my promised wedding day with garish pomp and circumstance but I, for reasons both of dignity and protocol, absented my self. Henry came to greet me privately on his return. Neither he nor I spoke of his sad failure on the eve of his departure, for he bore a grievous new report. In his four days visit to Boulogne the King had there withdrawn support for our marriage. News had come from Austria where Charles’ troops had soundly routed Turkish foes. A resounding victory for Katherine’s nephew has now left his troops wanting another battleground. And if Francis gave his blessing to our marriage now, he felt, the Emperor — sore vexed — would press his troops against the French.

I knew not what to say. This seemed a cruel insult to our marriage, a foul and final obstacle in one long road littered with the same. But something from a well of calm and reasonable thought prevailed in me that day. For once I saw these circumstances as nothing personal but simply facts of politicks, Pope and Kings.
I felt a Queen
and so did act as one, offering Henry neither tears nor tantrums, but instead a quiet compromise. I told him, “Sweetheart, did we never speak of how our marriage would be better made on English soil? Those subjects who bear no love for me would like nothing more than some wedding they could say was false and never legal. I am happy, I swear I am, to wait and wed on more familiar shores.”

Henry was quiet and seemed to be digesting these thoughts as tho they were some great and ponderous meal. In this time there came a knock upon the door that proved to be a man who was the Provost of Paris him self. He had come on Francis’ bidding, bearing me a gift from him — a large and brilliant diamond in a purple velvet box. The Provost gone, the gem (which Henry took to be worth fifteen thousand crowns) sparkling between us, the day seemed suddenly much brighter. We agreed between us that tho Francis was an ally still, he needed further wooing, and this I surely could provide. Then Henry faced me placing both his hands upon my shoulders, and looked into my eyes. He made to speak, lips parted … but no words forthcame. He dropped his hands and left me then, he said to see to business. I felt his words, if uttered, would have spoke of this Queenly bearing lately forged in me, and of his pride in it.

So, ‘twas time to make my plans for meeting Francis. I knew it must be splendid, a most glittering occasion. He was wont to have magnificent accoutrements — brightest music, sweetest wine, most sumptuous food, richest hangings, costumes elegant beyond imagining. All this I would provide and more, for we must say to Francis with our hospitality that we bore him neither anger nor ill will for his support withdrawn, that it would serve him well if, tho publicly he turned away, that in his private dealings he should be our good and faithful friend.

The night that would have been our wedding celebration, Henry and King Francis dined together at the Staple which I’d taken great pains to decorate most lavishly. Boards and cabinets groaned with weight of Henry’s golden plate. Walls were covered, every inch, with jewelled tapestries and every corner glittered, filled with tapers in encrusted golden candelabras. Fine musicians imported from Paris played the latest lilting tunes and when the two great Kings were drunk with food and wine and hearty laughter, all doors flew open. There in a shower of fine glitter, eight masqued ladies emerged dancing to a sprightly tune. Their gowns, exotically designed, were all of gossamer and cloth of silver, crimson tinsel satin laced with knitted gold. Each mysterious lady chose a French guest as partner for the dance. One of them was Francis, looking most outrageous in his violet cloth of gold and collar made of diamonds, pearls and emeralds large as goose eggs. Then on cue all dancing ladies pulled away their masques and did reveal themselves. The French King’s partner was my self.

His eyes lit with laughter and surprise. I saw that he admired my audacious entrance and this clever conceit. We leapt and twirled and I could see that Henry, watching from his place as host crowed with pleasure at the sight — High King of France paying court to his sweetheart. Later in a private conversation with the King we spoke of many things. Some memories of my years at his Court, much flattery both I to him and him to me, some serious words that touched on stately matters. He apologized to me (imagine that!) of his public disavowal of our wedding and made his explanation which I, with royal grace, accepted. In place of support he offered up delicious plots whereby using French Cardinals of Tournon and Grammont, he’ll trick Pope Clement to delay his final judgement of Divorce which looks to favor Katherine.

The night was splendid, most successful, Henry quite beside himself. I strove to make advantage of his happy mood and when we did retire that evening late I went unbidden into Henry’s arms and there found excited welcome. ‘Twas marvellous this unexpected bedding, rough as well as tender, hurtful tho but sweet. My body and my womb accepted all of Henry Rex and his most passionate affection showed itself to me. The night moved into day but we never strayed far from that Bed of State. Then the storms began and made our crossing back to England altogether impossible.

We were glad of it. All meals were thus delivered to our bedroom door. No one did we see for three full nights and days. We laughed, sang, played duets, ate, drank, bathed together ‘fore the fire, and made plans as well as love. Finally, two hours ago Henry pulled his clothes round him saying he had better make arrangements on our crossing, for the storm was soon to pass. He kissed me once and smiled. More satisfied a man I’ve never known. Then he left me here alone … and I write.

My fears have mostly gone. My marriage is assured and if there is a God in Heaven I will, from these lush days, soon quicken with a son. I see the future bright in front of me, for love blesses this union, and like a beacon it will shine to light our way forever more.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

3 January 1533

Diary,

Praise Jesus, the prophesy comes true. I am carrying Henrys child! Since returning from Calais I had prayed daily on my knees for such a timely miracle, for with the holidays approaching and great affairs of state intruding, the King and I found little time and less of privacy for love. All at Court knew that we had finally bed together. My good friends prayed with me for some happy result of that tempestuous confinement in Calais. My enemies trembled at the thought.

I hardly breathed as my days of monthly bleeding came and passed, and openly rejoiced with each and every queazy rumbling of my belly. I craved crisp apples by the basket, tho till now had never liked the fruit at all. My breasts swelled spilling out my bodices. My face found roundness filling out its angles. I told Henry nothing, wanting sure proof of my condition. But when the date of the second bleeding’d come and gone I went to him — ‘twas two days after New Years — said there was a gift I somehow had forgot, and handed him a pretty box of cloth of silver. He looked weary with all manner of weighty business laying heavy on his heart. “I have nothing for you in return, sweetheart.”

“O, but Henry,” said I, “this gift is one I give in return for one you’ve given me.” He cocked his head, observed my mysterious smile, then opened up the box. There amidst much gossamer tissue lay a tiny lace christening cap that I’d embroidered thro with gold and royal purple thread. He stared at it, his cluttered mind taking several moments to make sense of it.

“Is it true?” he whispered low and almost disbelieving.

“I am pregnant with our son, Henry. Our son.”

He grabbed me, crushed me to him crying out my name. He kissed my mouth, cheeks, eyes, throat. I felt hot tears upon my breast, his body heaving with great sobs and whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Finally he pulled him self erect. His cheeks were glittering wet, his eyes beacons.

“There’s much to be done,” he told me, “for this boy must be born to a Queen.”

I took his hand in both of mine and kissed it.

“My Lord, ‘tis I who thank you most humbly.” Then he left me, striding forth with such strength and unafraid, and all for putting England’s crown upon my head.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

16 January 1533

Diary,

Beneath the Court that’s made of Lords and Ladies, members of the Parliament, Counsellors, Chancellors and Bishops lies a Secret Court, a clandestine government of but a few who truly rule the state. These days it is the King and Secretary Cromwell who tell the sun whence to rise, the tide to ebb. These two plot and scheme endlessly, Henry giving further weight to Cromwell’s thinking every day. To be sure he is clever and gives full support to our marriage.

This strange man, tho neither large in bodily stature nor acquired of gaudy accoutrements like Cardinal Wolsey — fine houses, marvellous jewels, lavish revels — seems to me much greater somehow. An air of vast and dignified importance surrounds his modest presence. I know ‘tis ambition great as Wolsey’s that lights the fire behind those beady eyes. He makes no mistakes, for he’s learned well from his own master’s demise. I see Henry leans upon the man as he did the Cardinal, and I wonder at it. Will Cromwell, so high in favor now, with the vagaries of time and circumstance, ever fall so low as Wolsey did? Nevermind, for all matters of importance, save one, are now forgot. That matter, Henry tells me, is like a coin with one side our marriage, the other side his divorce from Katherine.

Cranmer, ambassador to the Imperial Court in Spain, was quick called home for his consecration as Archbishop of Canterbury. In the meanwhile Henry’s Roman agents procured from Clement papal bulls necessary for that consecration. The Holy Father must not know that Cranmer’s new appointment has one purpose only — to grant the Kings divorce — before the Pope grants those bulls, or all is lost. Clement still believes, as Francis promised him, that Henry will abide by his decision on the question of his marriage in a court in France this spring.

So all talk of marriage, pregnancy and coronation are hushed and stilled. This cold and quiet month of January passes ever slowly. Each morning I wake praying there to be no blood between my legs, no miscarriage to defeat so meticulous a battle scheme.

My Father, one of very few who knows my condition, came to visit me in my apartments which boasted all of Henrys gifts — fine rugs upon the trestles, quantities of gold plate, a new gaming table all inlaid with blue tiles. He looked grim and said little as we stood by the fire, so I teased him.

“You have a sour look about you, Father. Have you too many grandchildren already?” He would not answer, would not meet my eyes. But I would not be silenced by his silence and continued pressing him. “Tell me, how was your mind changed on this marriage? Why do you oppose it now?”

“I never wanted it.”

“You did! ‘Twas you who placed me, still a girl, under Henry’s hungry eyes. You who dressed me, coiffed me, served me up like some fancy French delicacy on a silver tray! You wanted him to want me!”

“But not to marry!”

“But why? I’ll be a queen, Father. Queen of England.”

His mouth shut tight as a clam. He looked as tho he’d swallowed some bitter potion. In the hearth a hot coal snapped and in that sound, that moment, I knew my father’s mind.

“I’ll be above you, will I not? I’ll be
your
Queen. You will have to bend your knee to your youngest daughter. It galls you, does it not?”

“Beyond measure,” he whispered fiercely.

“This was your arrangement, Father, and now you do not like the price.”

“Do you deny your own ambition?”

“Yes, I do!” I cried. “When I was just a girl come home from France I had no ambition save one — to marry a sweet boy for love. Then you and Cardinal Wolsey took the gentle flowing stream that was my life and dammed it, blocked and changed its natural course, so when undammed by Henry’s most persistent love for me, it became a flood, a raging torrent with a new and treacherous course — its own. A course that drowned Wolsey and now threatens swamping you as well.”

I saw his eyes cold and steely hard. “Hear me, Anne. You play a game more dangerous than you care to know. You toy with Kings and Bishops, even Rome. You make fools of men. And other men will die in your name. You will come to no good end, I fear, and you will bring this family down as well.”

He took his leave abruptly, leaving his youngest daughter fraught as much with fear as with arrogant rage at her loveless Father.

Yours faithfully,

Anne