The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (31 page)

12 December 1534

Diary,

I am sore distraught for I have seen a person act so vile and wicked that my own heart aches with it. That person had banished from Court a poor widow forgot by her family, whose only crime was marrying for love and a pregnancy conceived in that union. That poor widow, now happy bride, was Mary Boleyn Carey and that cruel person, her sister — my self.

When I think on it for understanding I see how I perhaps came to such an act of unkindness. My own pregnancy had come to end in a bloody miscarriage but a day before my sisters plight was put before my eyes. I was still abed having yet found no words to tell the King — sore, weak, pitying my self and this bad fortune added to the rest — when I welcomed my Sister back from Calais, only to find her aglow with new life growing in her belly. Bile rose in my wretched throat and before I counted all the consequences, shouted out that she’d disgraced her self, brought scandal to my Court and dishonor to my name. Even blinded by fury I could see Marys happy face dissolve to shock and tears. She turned to run from my painful presence but like a deadly archer loosing poisoned arrows from his bow, I shot her down with stinging words from my bed.

“Who gave you leave to go from the Queens presence!” I shrieked. She froze where she stood. “Turn to me, Mary. Let me see the face of an ungrateful sister who dared without the Kings permission to give her self away to a simple soldier when there was some good value to be got from a marriage of alliance.”

“You must forgive me, Sister, but he was young and love overcame reason. I true believed the world set so little by me, and he so much, that I thought there was no better way but to take him and forsake all other ways, and live a poor honest life with him. Our Mother, Father, even Brother George are cruel against us and have turned their backs on me.”

“And so do I!” I shouted then at her. “Get out, I have room for only one fool in my Court!”

Stung as she was by my words she held a proud posture, no doubt bolstered by her husbands love, and backed from my bedchamber. Sick as I was, sicker still did I become. I cried and raged until I vomited, hating my happy sister no more than I hated my miserable self.

Secretary Cromwell, when I next saw him in his private offices, showed me a letter Mary’d writ to him begging him to speak gently on her behalf to Henry, who should likewise speak to me and soften my resistance. She said she knew that she could have a man of greater birth, but never one who loved her so well, nor one more honest. “I would rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest Queen in Christendom,” she wrote.

“If I may be so bold as to give advice to you, Your Majesty,” said Secretary Cromwell, “I would forgive your sister. She is, after all, your blood … and the damage has been done. The King …” He paused as tho he had lost his words.

“What about the King?”

“I think he would not like to be bothered with this business.”

“Quite so,” I told him evenly. I did not say I knew full well the King would find the mention of his old mistress’s name offensive, nor did I deign to educate him on the great remorse I’d lately suffered on account of my scurrilous treatment of my sister. “Send Mary and her new husband my blessings and the King’s as well. And when the child comes we’ll send a rich gift so she will know our love’s sincere.”

“Very good, Your Majesty. Leave it in my hands.” As I left Cromwell’s apartments I wondered at the spareness and the modesty of his rooms for a man so high in the King’s favor. Surely he could have a soft cushion on his chair, fresher rushes on the floor, a few fine hangings to keep out the draughts. Perhaps in his sincere and undivided attention to the King’s business, he does neither see nor feel the cold and harsh surroundings.

By that time Henry’d had the news of my miscarriage, and in public was little colder than he’d been before. But in my bed late at night where he had come to exercise his rights — since he no longer came to take his pleasure — I found him rough and crude. He reeked of ale and I could smell another woman’s scent upon his body.

“How does my Queen?” he inquired with that particular ugliness of voice which told of his loathing. “We shall try again, Anne, tho your womb seems an uncomfortable place for my sons.”

I held my tongue on which hung some bitter words. I spread my legs for him and bore his stinking breath and hateful seed, for this is the bed that I have made and I have nought to do but lie within it.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

24 February 1535

Diary,

Despite my growing miseries my maids and I spent last evening in our cups and laughing very merrily, for the fool I have in my employ — a woman named Niniane — we all like right well. She finds many marvellous ways to make jests of all our woes. Nonsense and puns, bawdy songs with verses that, once sung, we ladies sing along with. She makes unimaginable contortions of her body and her pliable face, juggles, tells ribald stories all complete with accompanying sounds like horses clop-ping, bells ringing, thunder pealing. Most times and to our great delight she makes men the butt of her jokery, pratfalls and impersonations — feeble brained noblemen, vainglorious fops, clumsy clods and lecherous Bishops. A cuckolded man who’d caught his wife in bed with her lover, she described as looking like a dog falling out a window. We howled with laughter till we cried, but begged the girl for more till she could hardly stand. I paid her handsomely in praise and gold, and bid her stay close to me, for I have troubles multiplying daily and need a respite now and then.

Henry, not content with whores kept in private brothels, even maidens kept above his chambers for satisfaction of insatiable venereal cravings, has again taken Elizabeth Carew as his lover. She seems no passing fancy and they do not hide their amorous liaison from my eyes, in deed flaunt the romance for all the Court to see. Of late this handsome waiting lady wears hung round her throat rich jewels which could only be of royal origin, and a smirk upon her face born in confidence of Henrys protection. I had endured this humiliation several months in silence, then let my rage overtake my reason and commanded Mistress Carew from the Court. Henry heard of it and quickly nullified my order, sending me a harsh message that I had better be content with what he’d done for me, for he would not do it now were it to begin again. O sweet Jesus, this man my husband does humiliate my very soul. To have suffered all that I have as recipient of his unwanted love, and then to be treated poorly as Queen Katherine was! And this is not the end of it.

Henry’s now begun to show some fair affection to his daughter Mary. He sent a fine new litter and rich hangings for her rooms in Hatfield Hall. But worse than this, I fear he speaks more lovingly of her than of Elizabeth to his courtiers. Last visit that I made my daughter, I was accompanied to Hertfordshire by a complement of Lords and Ladies not the least of which were Dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk. We spent a most congenial ride together and I anticipated some happy hours spent within the royal nursery, all these courtiers gathered round the Princess paying homage due her self. But when once we’d come to Hatfield’s door and our carriages and horses led away, all but two of my ladies like magick disappeared, and without a word of warning (tho surely was a plan rehearsed) made their way to Lady Mary’s chambers there to pay
her
homage! I stood speechless with my remaining loyal ladies trying hard to hide the crimson flush my indignant cheeks were showing. My maids, too, were taken by surprise by this rude mutiny, and in their kind way made light of it, urging me to go directly to my daughter, the very sight of whom they knew would ease my angry disposition.

Elizabeth is not yet two, but bold in spirit and strong upon her tiny feet like a tiny whirlwind. She is a happy child and so beautiful it almost makes me weep. I spoke with Lady Bryan who says my child does suffer with her great teeth which come forth very slowly. I promised I would send nigh some lavender oil to soothe her aching gums and calm her nighttime wailing.

The afternoon which might have then passed pleasantly enough was later marred when I received a most insulting note from Lady Mary, stating her refusal to come out from her apartments, as she did not wish to see me. And when I later gave Mistress Shelton orders that the girl be punished for her rudeness, Henry him self had those orders countermanded.

I confess, where I once shrank from accusations of Marys poisoning, these days I wonder if her execution is the only end for such a traitorous subject. She and that scabrous mother of hers! Both continue to refuse the oath that each and every person in the land must swear to or face execution. Let God hear me now, I shall be that girl’s death and she shall be mine!

Yours faithfully,

Anne

2 March 1535

Diary,

I fear the French have now deserted me as rats desert a sinking ship! My good allies, country of my education, supporters of my marriage, make certain mockery of my friendship. This was made clear upon the coming of King Francis’ delegation headed by the Admiral of France and my old friend Chabot de Brion, whom I have received most lavishly in England on his many visits, and in Calais previous to my wedding. We understood one another, this man and I, spoke the same language, held the same thoughts. His prodigious flattery I believed sincere.

On their arrival of this occasion to discuss a royal marriage, tho, Chabot made no attempt to seek an audience with me as he is wont to do, or bring a token of affection from Francis, or even greetings from that King. When Henry did inquire if the Admiral wished to pay his respects to the Queen he replied that he would do so
if it pleased the King]
He abstained from all the revels, jousts and tennis games I’d planned so carefully for him. And when he chanced to see me, he was cold and so ungracious that a strange thought passed thro my mind — that this man was not Chabot at all, but some stranger disguised as him. For I was sore confused by such behavior. Confused, that is, until negotiations opened for the English-French alliance and my daughter’s hand in marriage.

It seems that King Francis’ loyalty has flown in the direction of Rome. Tho he still grants Henry’s marriage to Katherine invalid, Mary, he asserts is still the heir and thus demanded an old betrothal of the wretched girl to his son the Dauphin be fulfilled. Threats were made, yes threats that if the pledge was not honored they would tie the French Prince in matrimony to the Emperor’s daughter.

All of these ugly surprises tore at my mind’s fabric leaving its edges ragged and frayed, so that at the final feast given for the French emissaries I imbibed too freely, and thus had no guard upon my tongue. Chabot sat coldly at my right making inconsequential conversation and I, in turn, chattered like a mindless girl. Then my eyes caught sight of Henry cross the room catching sight of his beloved mistress. The King was stopped dead, and the look of his face — so fraught with passion and so like the look he once held for me — caused to rise in my throat a sudden bitter laugh which, loosed by wine, became a great unstoppable torrent. Chabot was quite offended and asked whether I was mocking him, which led to even more of my laughter. He spluttered, turned a furious red and rose indignantly to go. I sobered quickly then and held his arm, knowing this momentary lapse of sanity could harm irreparably my daughter’s yet endangered cause. Nothing short of truth would, I knew, calm the man and so humiliating my self as I spoke, I admitted seeing Henry’s loving actions toward his mistress. I was grateful that Chabot believed my explanation, but I cringed at the pity for me I saw within his eyes.

Upon the Frenchmen’s departure Henry sent word that their proposal would not do, and offered up Instead Elizabeth for the Duke d’Angouleme’s bride. The delegation sailed with stiff and formal promises of a swift reply. I believed that Henry was as cold as he could be to me, but I was wrong. His eyes after their departure fixed me with a steely stare and he said, “You should pray God, Madame, that their answer comes in your daughters favor, for what use have I for either of you if not for such alliances?”

Many weeks have come and gone and we wait in vain for their decision. Eastertide is now upon us but I feel no celebration. I make the motions that are expected of a queen — ordering new gowns, planning feasts and masques and special masses — but each day of silence from across the Channel tolls in my head like some dread and heavy bell down an empty abbey corridor. I pray God takes my part in this, for I have never sinned as much as I am being made to pay for.

Yours faithfully,

Anne

14 April 1535

Diary,

My prayers are answered! The French have finally agreed the Duke d’Angouleme shall wed Elizabeth. The marriage shall be negotiated in Calais the latter part of May. And happily I do report my brother George is back in England, his long assignment into France completed. A most welcomed friend to my inner circle, he brings more than divertissement, French songs and ditties, latest fashions, books and new ideas. He brings me love and loyalty that I have sort missed. He pays his Queen and sister so lush a measure of attention that her life has flowered and turned fragrant once again. He and Francis Weston, Henry Morris and Mark Smeaton often join my ladies for late night revelries, music, dancing, gaming, laughing at Niniane’s anticks.

I know that God has not been so kind to some men. Severa! monks of the Carthusian Order who‘ve refused the oath have recently been jailed. Thomas More and John Fisher, too, languish still within the Tower for their refusal to comply. Often Secretary Cromwell visits them, offering every easy way to save face and do as all others have. Even members of Mores family have sworn. But he remains so stubbornly opposed that Henrys temper grows daily more fierce upon the subject of his old friend, now enemy. Mayhaps reason will steal upon More suddenly from the shadows of his cold cell, and he will swear to end for once and all so needless an imprisonment.

George often rides with me to Hatfield where he finds his pretty niece growing quickly. Plans for Elizabeths weaning have been taken up with Master Cromwell, Henry and my self. The Lady Mary still ensconced at Hatfield holds Court with her supporters, not so secret as she supposes, who court her and rally round Ambassador Chapuys. His constant letters to the Emperor are no doubt filled with schemes and plots (all failed) to place her first in the succession.

Have I forgot to say that Clement is dead and a new Pope, Paul III, stands in his place? This man, stronger in resolve by far than doddering Clement ever was, threatens Henry’s peace directly with a declaration that for his foul act of marriage to me, he is deprived of his Kingdom, and even a promise of invasion. The King worries little since France and Spain will soon be at war, and thus the Emperor will be so much involved that no invasion could be mounted upon England. And such a war would cause Francis’ call for aid, and his alliance with Henry, which would give the King great satisfaction.

So much improved is my mood that some schemes of my own foment inside my head. But I will leave them for another day.

Yours faithfully,

Anne