The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn (6 page)
Read The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Online
Authors: Robin Maxwell
A sharp knock at the Presence Chamber door starded the Queen. “A moment more, Kat!”
Her mind raced. Against all odds her mother had kept secret the diary throughout her life. Now no one but herself and Lady Sommerville knew of its existence. Elizabeth determined in that moment that no one else should ever know. She would lie to Kat about the reason for Lady Sommerville’s mysterious visit. And she would hide the diary away under lock and key. In the most public of lives, it would be her most private secret. Elizabeth concealed the claret volume in a pile of state documents before calling her waiting ladies back into the Presence Chamber.
“With whom is my next audience?” she inquired mildly of Kat.
“Lord Braxton and his son. After that is your morning consultation with Lord Cecil. And then a sitting for your portrait, Madame.”
“Very good. I’m going to my apartments for a moment,” said Elizabeth, scooping up the documents and moving toward a concealed door, the back way to her rooms.
“Now?” cried Kat. “Lord Braxton has been waiting. And Lord
Cecil…”
“Let them wait,” said Elizabeth, clutching the diary to her breast and disappearing through the door.
Kat Ashley hummed absently as she poked at the fire in the Queen’s bedchamber. Elizabeth was irritated with her own nervous pacing and clammy hands which now worried a silk tassel at her waist.
“What gown will Her Majesty wear for the evening’s entertainment?” asked her waiting lady.
Elizabeth knew that her answer would elicit a flurry of unwanted questioning. Still she said, “I won’t be joining in, Kat. I want to be alone this night.”
“Very good. I’ll have them bring our supper up. We’ll eat it by the fire.”
“No, Kat, I mean to be quite alone.”
The lady blinked, not yet comprehending Elizabeth’s words. The Queen was never unattended. Kat herself slept on a pallet at the foot of Elizabeth’s bed. She, at the very least, should stay and —
“Just bring some candles now, all you can find. Light them round my chair.”
“Candles?”
“Make it bright as you are able.”
“I don’t know what’s got into you, Elizabeth.”
“Please.”
There was no sense in arguing with the Queen when she had made up her mind, decided Kat. No sense at all.
Elizabeth sat in her highbacked chair, flickering candles creating a halo of golden light around her head. The only sounds were the wind in the chimney and the crackle of burning wax. After Kat and her ladies had gone, leaving the Queen in blessed silence, Elizabeth had removed a small key hidden in the lining of a silver box and opened the heavily carved Italian chest that sat under the window. From amongst the delicate folds of her own christening robes she then pulled her mother’s diary. It had taken almost a week for her to find this moment of privacy, though the thought of the secret book had played at the edges of her mind every hour of every day since old Lady Sommerville had brought its mystery into her life.
The trunk, scented with lavender, was packed with neady folded linen and garments, some of them hers, some of them her brother Edward’s, some of them her father’s, which she kept as mementos — all that was left of her family. Pulling aside an embroidered tunic and a pair of leather hawking gloves, Elizabeth had found the small wooden trinket box she sought, the painted and gilt Bible scene on its lid long since worn away. Seeing the box released a flood of childhood memories, disjointed images from the nursery, from Hatfield Hall — some warm, some painful, all as much a part of her as her next breath.
The lid removed, all inside was immediately visible, a worthless jumble of paste jewelry, the vaguely heart-shaped stone a romantic young Robin had given her, an enameled thimble for a tiny finger, a mouse’s skull, a faded bluejay feather. And her mother’s handkerchief.
Elizabeth disentangled the square of fine linen from the other contents and held it in her hands. It was stained yellow with age and the lace edging was ragged in places, but the embroidered
H
and
A
, her parents’ initials, were yet lovingly entwined for eternity.
Now the Queen sat with the diary resting in her lap, the handkerchief a bookmark, and opened the book to the third entry. She squinted at the script on the page. She would have to read slowly, for her vision was weak and such strain readily brought on the headaches that caused her much misery. With chances for privacy so scant, she knew that reading the diary would take some time. But Elizabeth minded not at all. She would simply savor it like a rich wine, for Anne’s story, she felt, must be a piece of the riddle that was her destiny as a woman — and a queen. She began to read.
4 April 1522
Diary,
Such a Sunday it has been! Chapel done, an early summons from my Father brought me to the countinghouse where he was near finished with the feast plans for the Cardinal’s visit. I approached him where he sat behind the green baize table in a tete a tete with the Cofferer, an ugly man who from the corner of his lecherous eye surveyed me foot to head. I wished to go, for even then the Cardinal’s barge approached, but I was forced to stay, quiet and obedient till time permitted a daughters audience with her master.
He finally spoke to say that Sir Piers Butler had been made Lord Deputy of Ireland and I should make haste to my betrothed to add congratulations on his fathers appointment. At mention of James Butler and his kin I felt my face go hard, but quick replaced it with pleasant smile. I do fear his warlord father known to murder relatives, and loathe the wimpish ass of a son who likes me not much better than I like him. Yet James, when haggling and dowry are concluded by Father and King and Cardinal, is meant to be my lawful husband. You see my Father’s Father owns vast Irish estates, but our cousin that vile Piers Butler has prevented we Boleyns from ever occupying those lands. My marriage then to James, ‘tis thought, will end old disputes resolving matters, bringing peace to all. I shall travel to wild Irish lands to reign among the savage barefoot peasants there as Lady Butler. So they say I shall. So they say.
Dismissed and free at last I rushed away and stopped before the great bay window seeing Cardinal Wolsey’s gilt and painted barge gliding thro the marshy river edge to meet the palace landing stage. My heart leapt and I wondered should I go and calm myself, sit demurely within the chamber of the Queen, or should I fly cross the palace lawn to greet the one I love?
Then thro window glass I saw a flash of scarlet taffeta and then a great and ponderous form. Wolsey, red of hat and glove and gown, magnificent in his obesity preceded by his yeomen bearing all his Cardinal’s stuff— silver crosses, pillar, hat, Great Seal of England. From out the palace doors with pomp and circumstance marched King’s officials wreathed in golden chains whose tall white staffs they thumped importantly. I knew if here was Wolsey, sure his household followed close behind. And then I saw a figure plainly clad and lovely to my eyes — Henry Percy, thin and shy with kindness like a halo round a clear and rosy face. My heart beat wild within my breast. Even from a distance and tho he saw me not at all, I felt his love and knew he wished to break away and come to me.
So making haste I fairly ran thro the halls and up the stairs to Queen Katherine’s rooms where other ladies did attend Her Majesty. I watched the flutter — the waiting women, cooks and maids fussing, tittering, joking every one. The Queen was breaking fast and tho weary eyed, showed gentle cheer this Sunday morn. The two days last were spent, as always Friday and Saturday are, upon her knees on hard stone floors in chapel, fasting, asking God’s forgiveness for sins which, to all else, are goodly deeds. I wondered if the habit of St. Francis worn hid beneath her queenly gown did chafe, or give her comfort sorely needed.
You see, tho husband Henry loves her still he takes pleasure in their bed no more. For that he seeks none other than her waiting lady my Sister Mary! A French King’s whore, now mistress of Great Harry. I bade Mary tell me how she casts her spells, for truth be told tho she is beautiful, the Court is filled with lovely ladies. She smiled a wicked smile and said to me, “With men it’s how you hold them — tight, then loose, then let them go to grab and hold again.”
But truly, I have no need for such games with my love, for he is mine and I am his, as clear as these words are writ upon this page. But I digress. Back to that Sunday …
The ladies of the Presence Chamber stilled, for suddenly a male commotion down the hall and coming near was heard. And then they came, a rush of rough and ready gentlemen, all kisses, bows and compliments. Ladies paired with men to play and sing and flirt an afternoon away. Among the gents, a mild breeze amidst the storm, was my love. At first no words were passed between us. Instead he found two pillows, an empty window seat and placed the cushions there. He took my hand and brushed it softly with his lips, then led me to our little nest.
I swear my heart was beating so, I feared I would not hear his words. He was kind and generous and so unlike the lecherous gentlemen of the French Court that my studied charm had long ago dissolved beneath his warming stare. Whate’er his awkward faults I easily forgave. But my eyes could see a pall darkening sweet Percys spirit, so I questioned him of it. I wished I had not asked. For the sad tale he told was that in recent days, added to my poor betrothal to James Butler, was now his
own
betrothal. He was tied to Lady Mary Talbot and for this marriage many reasons, all but love, were given.
‘Tis nothing strange in such negotiations, for in our world love of the romantic kind is but another name for foolishness. And love within a marriage — the only kind permitted — is no more than duty. But in my heart I decry such principles as these, and so to my sweetheart I raged at this abomination of our separate betrothals, and swore against those who would keep us parted.
“The Cardinal and King stand with my father on this,” whispered Percy. “What am I to do?”
Softer still and trembling said I, “Defy and marry me!” I saw his face go pale in fear and dread.
I asked if he did not remember the Kings own sister Princess Mary. I myself had been in her retinue of waiting ladies when she sailed for France to marry old King Louis. I told him of the great love Mary shared with one Lord Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and how for reasons of alliance, that love was pushed aside. Obedient servant to her brother and her country, the Princess knew that she must sit upon the throne of France as Queen. But before she sailed upon that cold and blustery day from Dover shores — for I was there and saw her with my own two eyes — Mary pleaded that if Louis died that she’d be free to marry Brandon then. Henry gave his promise that this could be, and we set sail. I told Percy how with three short months as Queen, the old King died and waiting not for Henrys word, she and Brandon married
secretly
, then returned to England bonded thus. And how Henry raged and hurled abuse and sent them both from Court disgraced. “But soon, my love,” I said, “he brought them home forgiven, and here they live today.”
“Your point?” asked Percy, much confused.
“That our good King has beating in his breast a tender heart which knows how lovers feel, and will forgive us our defiance as he did his sister. And if our King shows clemency, then, too, Cardinal Wolsey and our parents must do the same. And we will have won a rare and wonderful thing. A marriage of love.”
He laughed in terror and delight and grasped my hands. “Sweet, sweet Anne, I have never known a woman such as you. My feeble words tell nothing of my longing, so let my arms, my lips, my body tell you instead.”
“And like the Princess and her Brandon shall we defy and marry?”
“Yes, yes!” he cried. Curious eyes of ladies, gents and Queen did turn upon his oath, so we returned to calm and proper converse. The morning went to afternoon all sweet and full of soft endearments, promises and plans. Much too soon a call was heard that all of those returning to the Cardinal’s house must go with haste or miss the tide.
I did not wish to lose him withal, so walked with him out to the misty river edge. Cloaked in darkness we kissed. O, it made grow a great fire in my loins, shook my legs and arms and seemed to melt my very chest! We clung and touched, my hand found his hardness and his my breast. I had dallied some in France but this flame, this sweet desire was new to me.
Then the torches lit the scarlet Cardinal down our way and we were forced to separate. Hasty goodbyes, quite dignified under his master’s ice cold stare. But it mattered not at all, for we were betrothed by our own hearts. This promise shall stand, and by the by in fullness of time Lady Percy I shall be.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
