The Lady in the Tower

The Pursuit Begins

I WAS NINETEEN in that year of 1526 when I returned to Court. I had gleaned some wisdom from my years of exile. I was no longer the guileless girl who had fallen in love with Henry Percy and believed in the easy road to happiness. I was hardened by experience, and I made up my mind never to be hurt like that again.

I should be guilty of false modesty if I denied that my coming to Court created a sensation. From the first moment I appeared, I was noticed. I had a natural flair for dress, and my apprenticeship at the Court of France had enhanced this, for while my gowns called immediate attention to me, there was nothing flamboyant about them. It was the style—and the manner in which I wore them. I favored the long hanging sleeves—which became known as the Boleyn Sleeves—not out of choice but because they hid that sixth nail. I wore a band of velvet about my neck on which was set a small diamond; this hid the mole which had caused me so much distress. It was not long before the fashion was for long hanging sleeves and a band about the neck, but no one else achieved quite the same effect. I had designed these sleeves for myself and they were mine alone. They never looked quite the same on anyone else. Moreover, those who favored the neckband forgot that I had a longer and more slender neck than is usual, and the band was most becoming to this. For some reason, though they copied me, they never looked quite like me.

Having been banished from the Court, I felt especial gratification in the effect I had created. George and Thomas Wyatt were constantly at my side. But there were others… mostly men, among them Henry Norris, a very attractive man and a great favorite of the King, who had given him honors, as he was accustomed to do with those whom he especially liked. He was married to Mary Fiennes, the daughter of Lord Dacre, and had one son; but his wife was not at Court and it seemed to be a not very happy marriage, for Sir Henry showed little regret for her absence.

Another in our group was young Francis Weston. He had just been made a page and was a great favorite of the King because he excelled at all games. He was the King's tennis partner and they played bowls and dice together. The King was always good humored when he lost to Weston, and it was said that the boy added greatly to his income through his winnings at games.

Francis used to gaze at me with frank admiration, and I had to admit that I liked that.

It was really very gratifying after being so despised and banished to be received back in this manner. Thomas Wyatt had professed his love for me; Norris's eloquent looks betrayed his feelings for me, and with the youthful devotion of Francis Weston I felt very cherished.

There was always some sort of masque going on at Court, and I, with our little group, was usually at the center of it. Tom Wyatt was by far the best of the poets, though my brother was quite a good versifier, and Norris was inventive in devising scenes and situations. Since we had been together, the entertainments had become more classical; we introduced themes from the Greeks and moved away from that type which the King had so loved— such as a party of travelers arriving from the East, or somewhere exotic—in splendid costumes and dancing among the company until their identity was betrayed and the tall one turned out to be the King. At first we had thought he might not approve but there was a side to him which loved literature and good music and he had a keen mind so that he could follow allusions; consequently our little pieces became favorites of his.

Mary was a little rueful. She was very frank with me. She told me that she thought the King was no longer interested in her. Her reign had been long but now it appeared to be over.

“Are there any rewards for long service?” I asked.

“I never wanted rewards, Anne,” she replied seriously.

“No. I expect that is why you lasted so long.”

“You are so cynical now. What makes you so, sister?”

“Long experience of life.”

“You have always been rather bitter about me… and the King.”

I turned to her and said: “I hate to see us humiliated. Why should we be picked up and dropped… just as it suits them? We should stand out against it. That is what I feel. And you, Mary, have pandered to it. You have demeaned not only yourself but our sex.”

“I never heard such talk.”

“I don't suppose you have. You have been honored because your partner in adultery was the King. Suppose it had been one of the stablemen, what then?”

“Anne!”

“The principle is the same. Cannot you see that?”

She shook her head. “In any case,” she said, “it is all over now.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “He is brooding… absent-minded. The last time I saw him he was simply not aware of me. I was dismissed before I had had a few words with him. I think there is someone else.’

“Who is she?”

“I don't know.”

“We soon shall, I suppose,” I said. “These matters have a way of forcing themselves on the public notice. Everyone knew of you, in spite of all the discretion.”

“Yes. It cannot be hidden long.”

“You don't look brokenhearted.”

“Oh…I'm sorry. It was great fun… but I always knew it would end at some time… and Will is so patient.”

“As becomes a complaisant husband.”

“You shouldn't be scornful of me. Our father has not done too badly. George either.”

“No. There is that. Our father can say, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful daughter.’ I'm sorry, Mary, but I cannot like it.”

I marveled at her. She had that kind of temperament which would enable her to sail comfortably through life. She saw no evil, thought no evil, said no evil… therefore for her, there was no evil. It was the way to live. Perhaps I should have learned from Mary.

I often thought about the Queen. I had noticed a change in her on my return. She had aged considerably. She must long ago have accepted the fact that she could not keep up with her husband. She turned a blind eye on his amorous adventures, just as Claude had with François. But she had not had to face that blatant infidelity as Claude had. At least Henry was, in a manner, discreet; and it was easy for the Queen to make a pretense of not knowing about his amours, whereas it would have been farcical for Claude to have done so.

Queen Katharine was gentle and kind to me. I think she was a little sorry for me because my proposed marriage to Henry Percy had been so ruthlessly prevented, but I could understand that she might not feel very friendly toward our family since Mary was a member of it; yet she showed no rancor to me—nor in fact had she to Mary.

I had my duties in her household, but there was plenty of spare time for Court activities. The Queen had, if that were possible, become more devoted to religion than ever and a great deal of her time was spent with her confessor and in prayer. She seemed to be suffering from some lingering illness which brought her pain and exhaustion. Often she would be unable to attend the evening's entertainment, but that did not mean that we, her ladies, could not; our services were often in demand.

I often think of Katharine now. I have to confess I did little then. My great pleasure was in my freedom from her somber presence.

I was happy at this time because I realized that I had recovered from my disappointment in my love affair and I had discovered that it was not true, as I had once thought, that I should be wretched forever. In addition I had learned a great deal. I should never be carried away again. I doubted that I should ever love anyone as I had loved Henry Percy; that had been a love which had surprised me for he had been no Adonis, no dashing hero; yet I had loved him for his weakness, and even now I did not blame him, but those who had prevented our marriage. The life I had imagined with him still remained an idealistic dream. I often wondered whether if we had married I should have become that gentle, tender wife—rather like my stepmother—thinking first of him and our children and so going on in peace to the end of my life. Knowing myself, that seemed hardly likely; but sometimes I thought it was not an impossible dream.

And now here I was—experienced, understanding something of human nature, determined never to be hurt again, making sure that always my head should be in command of my heart, perhaps making a brilliant marriage. I was not sure about that. But at last I felt myself no longer vulnerable…I was well warned against the blows of misfortune. I could protect myself and the thought exhilarated me.

Moreover, I had discovered something. I could draw men to me in a rather inexplicable way. Mary's attraction was obvious. Someone had said it was promise. She displayed her delight in sexuality, and that was an immediate magnet. It brought her lovers in plenty—not always constant, but how many lovers were? My brother George was good-looking and had a great fondness for the opposite sex. It was natural that he should have considerable success with them. I was quite different. I had a certain aloofness, a disdain for men. I did not crave a lover; in fact, I was determined that there should be no dallying with me. One would have thought this would act as a deterrent, as I had seen it did in some others; but in me it was like a magnet. I seemed to challenge them. My looks were unusual. I was not pretty like Mary, nor did I have George's good looks. I was like a changeling. Dark, strange… with my Frenchified clothes and manners. But I had learned that what I had drew people to me.

So there I was, no longer suffering from the scars of a broken love affair, surrounded by a group of admirers, excelling in dancing and playing the lute, the center of attraction.

I reveled in this new situation, and following on my long exile it was particularly alluring. I was going to enjoy it.

And then suddenly I realized what was happening.

It was unlikely that the King would be unaware of one who was often to the fore in the festivities.

In the dance, where partners were exchanged from time to time, I found myself face-to-face with the King. He dominated the Court, of course, not only on account of his size. He scintillated. He took my hand and said: “It pleases me to see you at my Court, Mistress Boleyn.”

I bowed my head.

“Your Grace is kind.”

“I like to be kind…to those who please me.”

I lowered my eyes. My heart was beating wildly. There was no mistaking that expression. I had seen it before in those little blue eyes in the garden at Hever.

He was holding my hand firmly and smiling at me.

We danced and I was passed on to my next partner. I was very disturbed. I knew what was coming. He had finished with one sister and he would try the next.

“No,” I said to myself. “Never.”

I did not sleep very much that night. I tried to recreate in my mind that scene in the garden, recalling, as far as I could, every word that had been spoken. He had gone along with the play-acting for a while and then he had grown angry. I had offended him by feigning a headache. “Tell her she should not linger too long in the rays of the sun.” He had said something like that.

I will never submit, I told myself. And the result? Banishment. Back to life at Hever.

Well, that was better than being taken up for a while and then being discarded, as Mary had been. Was this why she had been given her congé? Perhaps he did not want to be engaged with two sisters at the same time.

I had to be prepared. I had to be strong.

It was not long before he made his intentions clear. He did not send for me, which he could easily have done, but he was aware that if it were known that he had summoned me to his presence there would be talk. He always deceived himself that members of the Court did not know of his actions, whereas they were never in doubt. It might be that already someone had interpreted the glances which he had sent my way and they were saying: So Anne Boleyn is to be the next. I imagined the chortles of amusement. Meet and fitting! Off with the elder sister first and then on with the younger.

But it should not be so.

He contrived to come upon me one day when I was alone in a chamber close to the Queen's apartments.

He was smiling, looking at me with those eyes, which seemed too small for his large face, shining so that they glinted like aquamarines, the little mouth which could at times look grim, slack, in a satisfied way.

“Ah,” he said. “Mistress Boleyn.”

“Your Grace,” I said, bowing.

He came toward me, overpowering, glittering, menacing to my mind.

“I have seen you at Court,” he said, “and it pleases me.”

“Your Grace is kind.”

“But it is not our first meeting, eh?”

“No, Your Grace.”

He pointed a finger at me in a jocular manner. “Our first meeting… I remember it well. You played a little trick on me.”

“Your Grace, I was young and foolish…”

“And you are so no longer? You are an added glory to our Court. Your voice delights me. I can hardly think of one who plays better on the lute.”

Now was the time to say that none could excel His Grace—but I did not.

I stood there, tense, wondering what I must do.

“Because your singing and playing have pleased me, I should like to show my pleasure. So I have brought this for you.” From his pocket he drew a necklace of diamonds and emeralds. He held it before me, his eyes shining with pleasure… his hands ready to clasp it around my neck.

I drew back. I said: “Your Grace overwhelms me with his kindness.”

“’ Tis but a trifle,” he said.“’ Tis nothing to what I do for those I care for.”

“My lord…my King …” I stammered, for I knew now what role I had to take. “Your bounty overwhelms me, but I cannot accept this gift.”

“Cannot accept it? What mean you?”

“Your Grace …” I lifted my eyes to his face fearfully, as well I might. The little eyes were beginning to cloud a little, the mouth was hardening. “I…I am a simple girl…I cannot accept such a gift…even from Your Highness. I could only take such jewels from the man who would be my husband.”

“This is nonsense.”

“My lord … it is what I have always believed. I could not in honor accept such a gift. I trust Your Grace will understand the feelings of a simple girl who has been brought up to respect her honor and preserve it until she shall bring it to her husband.”

He was bewildered. I looked at him in trepidation.

“Then,” he said, “I have been mistaken.” He thrust the necklace into his pocket and strode out of the room.

I was trembling. What now? I visualized being sent back to Hever. The Court life which I was beginning to enjoy, and which had done so much to lift me out of my melancholy, was over.

Perhaps I had been wrong. My father's advancement and that of George would be over. But I could not help it. I had to let him know that I was not like my sister and I was not prepared to demean myself for any man… not even the King.

I waited for the blow to fall. Nothing happened. I helped Thomas and George write the masque. I went about my duties in a daze, expecting every day to be told I must leave the Court. Then I began to think that he had forgotten the incident. It had not been of any great importance to him. If only that were true. But I noticed him at the festivities; he would sit, frowning every now and then, and I would find his eyes following me.

Once we were partners in the dance as we had been before. “You flouted me,” he said. “It is not the first time.”

“I humbly beg Your Grace's pardon,” I said quietly, “but I must be true to my principles.”

“I like not those who disregard my wishes.”

I thought then that he was probably thinking of a greater punishment than exile. He was really angry with me.

And still nothing happened.

Then one day he sent for me and I was prepared for the worst. We were alone in a small chamber. His mood had changed. He was no longer angry, merely sorrowful.

“I am the King of the realm, am I not?” he asked.

I lowered my eyes. Such a question was obviously rhetorical.

“I have given my life to the comfort of my people, and yet there is one among them who would cause me great pain.”

I raised my eyes and looked at him in surprise.

“Have done,” he said. “You know to whom I refer. It is you, Mistress Boleyn. You have plagued me ever since the first moment I set eyes on you.”

“Your Grace, I meant no…”

“I know now why I have been so patient. I have been lenient. You have flouted me. In your father's garden you mocked me… then you pleaded a headache to avoid my presence. I should have commanded you to appear. I should have confounded you. But what did I do? I said, ‘She is but a girl. Let be.’ And I was tender toward you, was I not? And did you show me gratitude? No, you prate of your principles. You could have gone off to the wilds of Ireland, but I stopped that. You might have married that sniveling Percy, but I saved you from that, too. And why? Because I could see that you were different from all others, and where I wanted you to be was at my Court. I could see that you were saucy… haughty, too. I like that not in my subjects… and I let you go. I said I would forget the feelings you had aroused in me. And now here you are, back in my Court, and I can no longer hide from myself… nor from you… the true state of my heart. I am in love. By the saints, I never felt this for any other. I want you, and when you are mine I promise you I will forsake all others.”

I was surprised, but I was not unprepared for I had thought often of what I must do if confronted by such a situation. True I had not expected him to be so definite or vehement in his protestations, but I was ready, and I knew what I must do and do it quickly.

I said: “I think, my noble and worthy King, that you speak these words in mirth, to prove me, without intent of degrading your princely self. Therefore to relieve you of the labor of asking any such question hereafter, I beseech Your Highness most earnestly to desist and take this my answer—which I speak from the depth of my soul—in good part. Most noble King, I would rather lose my life than my virtue, which will be the greatest and best part of the dowry I shall bring my husband.”

He could not believe he was hearing all right. I wondered how many times he had been repulsed. Surely this was the first.

He must be furiously angry to be so rejected. I was really rather surprised to see the softness of his expression. Later I learned of that sentimental streak in his nature which so oddly mingled with the cruelty of which he could be capable. His character was such a mass of contradictions, which was why he was such a dangerous man to deal with. He could respect virtue while he was planning an onslaught upon it.

“Rise,” he said, for I had knelt as I spoke.

I did so, and for a few seconds we stood looking at each other.

Then he said: “You speak with conviction.”

“I mean every word I have said.”

His mouth hardened. “I shall continue to hope,” he muttered.

With great daring I replied: “I understand not, most mighty King, how you should retain hope. Your wife I cannot be in respect of mine own unworthiness and also because you have a queen already. Your mistress I will not be.”

He looked at me as though I had struck him. Then abruptly he left me.

I was in a terrible quandary. I could sense danger all around me. I was amazed that I could have spoken so boldly to him, but what else was there for me to do? The only way I could please him was to submit; and there would be the story of Mary Boleyn all over again.

I tried to reason with myself. Was I attaching too much importance to the matter? He had had mistresses before and although he was not as promiscuous as François had been and liked to conduct his affairs with a certain secrecy, it was well known in the Court that he was attracted by women.

It was only my determination not to be one of them which had given me the courage to speak as I had.

Perhaps he would accept my refusal and put me out of his mind. François might have tried some trick if he were really eager; I did not think Henry would. I thought his pride was such that he would dismiss me from his mind. If he would only do that and allow me to continue with my life at Court, I should be greatly relieved.

I decided I must confide in someone, and there was no one I could trust as I did George.

I sought him out as soon as possible.

“You look disturbed, George,” I said when I saw him, as indeed he did.

“As I might well be,” he answered.

“You, too!”

“You mean you are also. What ails you?”

“Tell me your trouble first.”

“It is Jane, of course.”

He was referring to his wife. I knew their marriage was a stormy one. I had never liked Jane Parker and had always thought it was a pity he had married her. So did he. It had been considered a fairly good match— otherwise my father would not have agreed to it. Jane was the daughter of Lord Morley; they were a noble but impoverished family and Lord Morley had been unable to meet my father's demands for the dowry. The King had actually come to the rescue and made up what Morley could not afford. It was a sign of the King's favor toward the Boleyns at that time—and all due of course to Sister Mary. What a pity it had worked out as it had!

Jane was as different from George as one person could be from another. She was dull and stupid; she could not understand his wit and she was very jealous. I think she loved him passionately but, being Jane, did not know how to attract him. Her possessiveness made her repulsive to him, and it was true, of course, that he was not the most faithful of husbands.

“Another of her jealous outbursts?” I asked.

“If only she were not so stupid, it might be worth while reasoning with her. She never understands anything. She gets an idea in her head and goes on repeating it.”

“Has she discovered you in some misdemeanor?”

“She does not need to discover. She invents. She says that I care more for you than for her.”

“For me?”

“Yes, you, sister. She says I am dancing attendance on you like Wyatt and the rest of them, and she reckons I should have married you instead of her.”

I burst out laughing.

“Did you tell her that a man may not marry his sister?”

“You cannot tell Jane anything. Now tell me what is bothering you.”

“It is the King.”

He stared at me.

“He has made a proposition to me.”

“And you?”

“I have told him it is impossible.”

“I knew, of course, that he was interested in you.”

“How?”

“It was obvious. He watches you all the time. Mary has been dismissed. He has not been interested in her for some time. It had to wane, but, being Mary, so easy and always ready to placate, he must have found her soothing. She became rather a habit with him, and the affair dragged on… almost like a marriage. She was so undemanding. But since you have been at Court, he has been rather unnaturally abstemious.”

“I can't believe this is because of me.”

“He has a sentimental streak. He has romance in his nature. He has changed quite a lot. He is quieter… thoughtful. It seems to me that he must truly be in love.”

“Kings don't fall in love like ordinary mortals. They just look at the object of their desire and say, Come.”

“And you?”

“I have told him that I will not be his mistress and I cannot be his wife by reason of my lack of royalty—my unworthiness, I called it, and I reminded him that he already has a wife—so the matter is closed.”

“By my troth, you are a bold one.”

“I meant it, George. But I am uneasy.”

“As you might well be.”

“What do you think he will do?”

“It's hard to say. He has done nothing so far. I expect the Boleyns will be out of favor. A pity… when I was just beginning to make my way.”

“I'm sorry.”

He put his hand over mine. “I am joking,” he said. “It is a tricky matter to flout the King.”

“I know. I did it before. That was long ago on our first meeting. I pretended I did not know who he was. I was, apparently, saucy. He forgave that. But did you know that it was he who stopped the Butler marriage?”

He looked at me in amazement.

“Yes… and my marriage to Henry Percy, too.”

“I wondered about Butler. It was very mysterious. Our father was most put out, but Wolsey warned him not to mention the matter to the King. Piers Butler has been enjoying the estates ever since. So … that was the explanation!” He looked at me incredulously. “But it was so long ago. Why has he left it all this time? I'd say he must be very much affected by you.”

“I was exiled to Hever…He came down soon after. I was at Allington while he was at Hever. But I never heard anything afterward. That was three years ago. If he was interested, he has a strange way of showing it.”

“It is very strange. I have no doubt that he is greatly taken with you now … and I understand it. Nobody at Court could be unaware of you. You are the leading light. You have many admirers, and the King has always liked to be at the head of the chase. And … he expects to win. Everyone must stand aside while he claims the victory. It has ever been thus. I can only think that he had some notion about the closeness of your relationship to Mary. I believe it might be considered some sin or other… almost as though Mary were his wife. He would have very strong views on matters like that. To tell the truth, Anne, he always has one eye on Heaven, assuring God and the saints that what he is doing is all for the good of his people. He must justify himself. It's strange really. He has power… complete power over us all… and while he uses it to his own ends, he wants to deceive the heavenly hosts into thinking that he is acting according to his conscience. It has to be stretched sometimes but he is a man who knows how to be lenient with himself…”

“What shall I do, George?”

“You will have to wait for him to make the next move.”

“And when he does?”

“It depends on what that move is.”

“If he is annoyed, and I somehow think he will be, for it must be a bitter blow to him that someone refuses him, what do you think he will do?”

George shrugged his shoulders. “It will be a blow, yes, but you tackled it in the right way… all that talk of virtue will touch him. He'd think of the recording angel up there making a few notes, and in his heart he knows that when his time comes he can't take his crown and the power and the glory with him. Wait and see what comes next. He may accept what you say and give you up as the one prey he was unable to catch. On the other hand, when he thinks about your temerity in refusing him, he may trump up some charge and have you dismissed from Court. I think you must be prepared for that. Your presence here would remind him of his failure and I do not think he would like that.”

“I should hate to go, George. It was so dull… but now it would be more so.”

“There is an alternative.”

“What?”

“Follow in our sister's footsteps.”

“That I should never do! And you should know better than to suggest it. I have been so ashamed of Mary. It is so humiliating… that…and what happened at the French Court.”

“Those French gallants were not so gallant after all, I know.”

“All talking of her in that ribald way!”

“Henry would not do that. He does not discuss the details of his amours with anyone. It would be against his image of himself. Besides, I am sure he convinces himself that he is quite faithful to the Queen.”

“I am very uneasy.”

“If anyone can handle this, you can. Be prepared for whichever way the wind blows. I am. And if we are stripped of our honors, we shall have to go back to merchanting in London. At least it would be interesting.”

“George,” I said, “you are a comfort. I knew you would be.”

“Don't fret. Whatever it is, we'll face it.”

Thomas noticed that I was preoccupied.

I had taken to wandering off down to the river—the Court was at Greenwich—and watching the boats sail by. I hardly saw them because I was thinking deeply of all I was going to miss in this life.

It was only a day since the King had spoken to me and I had not seen him since. At any moment I expected to be told that I was to leave. He would not tell me himself. There would be some order, vaguely suggesting that it would be better for me to return to Hever.

Thomas had seen me and came to talk to me.

“Why so sad? Why alone? How have you managed to escape your admirers?”

“It seems that I have not done so entirely,” I replied.

“This one would find you wherever you were. But tell me, Anne, what is on your mind?”

“It is the King,” I said.

“He has made certain suggestions?”

“You have guessed right.”

“I thought I saw it coming.”

“It was so obvious to you then?”

“Fairly. He is not one to hide his feelings. I saw his eyes following you with a certain expression. Interest is too mild a word to describe it.”

“I am afraid.”

He nodded.

“You understand that I do not want to be like my sister.”

“I do. You are proud. You would not surrender until you love. Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Dear Anne, how I wish…”

“Life is as we make it, I suppose. It is no use wishing it were different.”

“Where's the harm in wishing?”

“None, I suppose, as long as you remember that it cannot be.”

“I often think of those days at Hever and Allington… and in Nor-folk. It seems like fate that our families should be together both in Kent and in Norfolk. We should have plighted our troth then.”

“As children?”

“Why not? Was there not always that special feeling between us?”

“If I remember rightly, both you and George despised me for my youth and sex.”

“Put that down to the folly of the young.”

“You and George used to talk of great adventures, how you would go forth and win battles and honors. I do not remember that I had any part in them.”

“But I always loved you, Anne.”

“Thomas, I think that, like so many of your sex, love is something apart from the rest of your lives…a pleasant diversion to return to when the adventures begin to pall.”

“Was that how it was with Percy?”

I shook my head sadly. “No … that was where he was different. With him, I should always have been first.”

“So much so that he allowed himself to be married off very quickly to Shrewsbury's daughter.”

“Poor Henry, he just could not stand out against the pressure. You know how fearsome Northumberland could be. Besides, the King insisted. So did Wolsey.”

“They made quite an issue of that affair.”

I shivered and he turned to me. “Let's get away from Court. Let's defy them all.”

I laughed at him. “You have been sitting too long in the sun,” I told him, and I remembered that was what the King had said of me.

“You know Elizabeth and I do not live together. Our marriage is a disaster.”

“Most marriages seem to be,” I replied.

“They are usually brought about for the convenience of the family.”

“Is that the reason why they are so unsuccessful?”

“Who knows? Anne, what are you going to do?”

“I deplore the manner in which your sex treats mine. You think of us as playthings for a while, and when that particular toy no longer excites you, you reach for another. Do you think I would ever be submitted to such humiliation?”

“No.”

“Therefore I will be no man's mistress.”

“Not even the King's?”

I shook my head vehemently.

“You're playing a dangerous game, Anne.”

“It was not of my choosing.”

“In a way you are to blame. You have made yourself outstanding at Court.”

“I have been myself. That is all I can be.”

“There is always something to be done. I think you care for me a little. Just suppose they had not married me off … just suppose I were free.”

“You are married, Thomas, so there is no point in considering the matter.”

I touched the jeweled tablet which I wore on a chain about my waist. It was a favorite trinket and I was hardly ever without it. It had my initials engraved on it. I was thinking of what might have happened if Thomas had not been married. Perhaps it would have been a match which could have been approved by my father. The Wyatts were old friends. There would doubtless have been haggling over my dowry… but Sir Henry would not have been too hard. I was very fond of Thomas… but I was not really in love with him. I told myself I never would be in love again.

One of the links in the chain had broken and the tablet slipped off. I turned it over in my hand; it reminded me of Hever and Allington and the old days.

“You give up too easily, Anne,” he said, coming nearer to me. “Am I going to spend the rest of my days longing for what might have been?”

I smiled at him. I did not believe he was as deeply involved as he made out to be. He was a practiced lover and he had always known how to use words effectively: he was the sort of man who would know how to touch the heart of a susceptible girl. But I was not susceptible. And I had no more intention of becoming Thomas Wyatt's mistress than I had the King's.

“Think about it, Anne. Think about us.”

He leaned farther toward me and took the tablet from my hand.

“I remember this trinket well.”

“I have had it for years.”

He held it in his hand and looked at it lovingly.

I stood up and held out my hand for it. He was beside me, laughing, with a mocking glint in his eyes.

“I shall keep it.”

“No. You will give it back.”

“It will be a memento… something that has been near you. I shall sleep with it under my pillow in the hope that in my dreams that which you deny me will be mine.”

“You are ridiculous, Thomas. Give me the tablet.”

He took a few paces backward, laughing at me. He held out his hand. “Come and get it,” he said.

As I went to get it, he snatched his hand away and ran.

“Give it back,” I shouted.

“It is mine,” he called over his shoulder. “I shall never let it go.”

He ran and I went after him. He outstripped me. As he turned the corner of the palace, he held up his hand and the trinket glistened in the sun.

Then he was gone.

I did not see the King for several days. I thought his attitude was very strange, as it had been throughout our acquaintance. I could not understand why there should have been those great efforts to stop my marrying either James Butler or Henry Percy, and then the long silence. And now the passionate avowal and more silence. It was really very odd. I did wonder, having heard from both George and Thomas, who in their positions at Court knew something of the intimate nature of the King's character, whether his conduct was in some way connected with his relationship with Mary.

But it was more likely to be annoyance with me. He was probably indicating how much he resented my refusal to accept his proposal. Or it may have been that he made such declarations to any woman who might interest him momentarily.

Weston had gathered us together. The King wished a masque to be devised which would outshine all others. It was to take place at Greenwich, where the Court would be for the occasion, and it was to honor the departing French ambassadors.

When the King wanted to impress foreigners—and particularly the French—he liked the entertainment to be of special grandeur.

A great deal had happened since that display at Guines and Ardres which had surpassed all with its pointless flamboyance and which had so quickly shown itself to have been of no value whatsoever. There would never, I guessed, be another Field of the Cloth of Gold.

George was particularly interested in what was going on abroad and he often talked about it. The fate of King François was of particular interest to me. In a way I had been fond of him. I knew he was a libertine, untrustworthy, and that the only true loyalty he had was to his sister and mother, but as a lover—in spite of his numerous affairs—he was constant to only one passion in his life and that was Art. He genuinely cared for it, and I had never forgotten his reverence for great artists. Moreover, I had been very fond of Marguerite. I would always remember her as the model I had looked up to in my youth. She had taught me so much; I had wanted to be like her. She had given me an appreciation of literature which I had never lost. So I was always avid for news of what was happening at the French Court.

I had felt quite sad when I had heard that François had been captured at Pavia and was the Emperor's prisoner in Madrid. I tried to imagine his frustration in such circumstances. It seemed inevitable that he should become sick. There had been a pitiful attempt to escape by changing clothes with a Negro servant who delivered the coal. I could not imagine François as a servant in any circumstances and I was not surprised that the attempt failed. Emaciated, failing in health, there could have been no doubt that he would have died if Marguerite had not gone out to nurse him. She brought her zeal, her energy and her efficiency to overriding all difficulties and to her determination to save her beloved brother.

Having lived so close to them, I could picture, far better than my brother or Thomas could, their feelings in this terrible situation in which they found themselves. When I heard that on her arrival Marguerite found her brother so near to death that he was ready for Extreme Unction and to take his last farewell of the sister who was so dear to him, I felt deeply shocked. But Marguerite would not accept what seemed to others inevitable. She had not overcome such opposition, and traveled so far, just to say farewell to him. I could imagine her discourse with him. She was an eloquent and convincing speaker and she would be practical, too. She would have forced him to keep his grip on life, for without him she would have no wish to continue. I did not doubt she had taken remedies with her, and in spite of the fact that he was on the threshold of death, she nursed him back to life.

He was free now, but Charles's conditions had been harsh. François had had to agree to relinquish the sovereignty of Flanders, Artois and the Duchy of Burgundy; and moreover to restore to the Constable de Bourbon, whom he considered a traitor, all he had taken from him.

Poor Claude had died. I was very sad to hear of her death. She must have been about twenty-five years old and she had always been a weakling. Nevertheless, she had borne François seven children in spite of her infirmities. I supposed it had worn her out. Perhaps I should not have pitied her. She had never really been unhappy, which must have been because she had shut herself off from worldly matters and given herself to good works and religion, and this had brought her a peace and serenity which I found remarkable.

François was now married to Charles's sister Eleanora, as part of the peace terms. But although he was allowed to leave Madrid, which seemed necessary if he was to recover fully, he had to deliver his two sons, the Dauphin and the Duc d'Orléans, as hostages until the treaty was signed. So the two little boys were sent to Madrid and François had returned. Poor François! They said he had left his youth behind in a Madrid prison.

There were other important events taking place in Europe. Pope Leo had died and Clement VII had replaced him. Wolsey's dream of being Pope had not come true. I could not feel sorry for him. I would never forgive him for what he had done to Henry Percy and because he had regarded me as a foolish girl unworthy to mate with the great House of Northumberland. Wolsey's conduct—although it had been instigated by the King—was unforgivable. I was glad Clement had been chosen instead of him. So he had not gained the Papal Crown and here he was in England, the servant of an unpredictable master. The King was delighted that he had failed to be elected, so George told me. He could not bear the thought of parting with Wolsey.

I said: “Is he so important to the King then?”

“Henry could not do without him. Wolsey has genius. One has to admit that.”

It was true. He was involved in many diplomatic negotiations. His name was a byword on the Continent. When people thought of influencing the King, they first thought of Wolsey.

However, as soon as François was free, he set about inducing Pope Clement to absolve him from his oath. Clement was no Leo. That he was weak, swaying toward whichever side would bring more benefits to him, became more and more obvious to us later.

He absolved François from his oath, which, of course, meant that François would immediately plan to go to war again.

The power of the Emperor had increased enormously. He was now the most powerful man in Europe. Young as he was, he was proving a statesman of stature, and this gave great concern to those who had previously been his allies. The King, with Wolsey behind him, sought to break the alliance with the Emperor and form a new one with France and the Italian states. This was the reason why the French ambassadors were in England.

I supposed that satisfactory conclusion had been reached and this was to be their farewell entertainment.

Thomas had written the masque. There was a certain amount of mime, poetic lines were to be declaimed and some singing. Several of the ladies would be dressed as nymphs and they were to be disturbed by satyrs from whom they ran in terror to be rescued by heroic knights. It was a setting which had been used many times; the difference was in the singing and the dances, which would be more exciting than anything that had been done before.

During the day the great hall was hung with tapestries. These usually depicted some great battle but at Poitiers, Crécy, Agincourt and suchlike the French had been our enemies, so we fell back on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, which seemed one of the few occasions when there had been amity between our two nations.

Some very artistic scenery had been erected and this never failed to win admiration.

The King would naturally take part. He would be the leader of the knights who rescued the maidens from the satyrs.

There was a great deal of laughter as we planned all this. I often thought the planning was more fun than the actual performance. I had given a lot of attention to what I should wear. Water nymphs should be green but I wanted to wear red and I did. My gown was red velvet but it fell open from the waist to the hem to show a green velvet petticoat. The band about my neck was green velvet, as was the lining of my hanging sleeves. It had been difficult to find a green which toned to my satisfaction, but I decided that the contrast was quite effective.

I felt a mingling of apprehension and excitement. If he ignored me tonight, I was sure that I was safe, for if he had intended to banish me, he would surely have done so by now. Yet suppose his ardor had remained, what then?

My gown was becoming. Perhaps I should have made myself drab. That was something I could not do. Clothes had always been so important to me and I did not think I could be entirely happy when they were becoming—nor could I be completely happy if they lacked charm.

I wanted to remain at Court. I wanted to be the brightest star of the evening. I wanted admiration from them all, including the King. But I must be in control of it and never allow any of them to get beyond desiring, and my instinct warned me that they must do so if their desire was satisfied.

So in high excitement I danced and I sang; I fled in terror from the satyrs; and then out came the knights wearing masks, of course, in a ridiculous pretense of hiding their identities—their leader tall and commanding, a glittering figure.

I made sure I did not run toward him but almost flung myself into the arms of one of the other rescuing knights. But he was thrust aside and Henry was seizing me.

“Mine, I think,” he said, and I was immediately relinquished.

“Thank you, good knight,” I said, rather apprehensively.

“Have no fear, maiden. You are safe now.”

I was one maiden who felt far from safe.

Then there followed the unmasking of the knights and the exclamations of amazement.

He was looking at me with a boyish expression of pleasure. I think he was expecting me to be overcome with surprise to find that the tall, glittering figure was not a humble knight but the King.

I almost liked him then. There was something appealing in his child-like amusement, his love of a game, his boyish indifference to reality.

But my anxiety was acute. I suffered a great many qualms because I knew that the chase was not over; it was only just beginning.

“I trust,” he said, “that you are grateful for your rescue.”

“Your Grace is indeed a valiant knight.”

“I was just in the nick of time. I did not care to see you carried off by another.”

“Your Grace is very kind,” I said cautiously.

“And would be kinder.”

I pretended not to hear that.

He had taken my hand. They had started to play a galliard.

“I know you dance like an angel,” he said. “There is no one who dances as you do.”

Now was the cue. The correct answer was: I am clumsy compared with Your Grace. But I said: “I have never thought of angels dancing. One sees them playing harps. But dancing…never.”

He said: “You like to tease, Mistress Boleyn.” That was a hint of reproof. Be careful. I did not like that little mouth. It was slack and happy at the moment, but I knew it could be cruel.

I said: “Did not Your Grace think the scene was well done?”

“Yes…yes… that was Wyatt, I dareswear.”

“And the nymphs…they were charming, were they not?”

“I saw only one of them.”

“Your Grace!”

“Have done. You know my heart.”

“I can add nothing to what I told Your Grace at our last meeting.”

“We'll see,” he muttered, his lips tightening—the spoiled boy, I thought, who has been told he may not have another sugar plum.

We gave our attention to the dance. People stood apart from us. I was more than a little uneasy. He had already shown his preference for me by choosing me from among the nymphs. There would be a great deal of talk now. I imagined the sly comment: Off with the elder sister; on the with younger.

No, I told myself vehemently. It shall not be.

But I knew in my heart that this passion of his was something which could not be lightly thrust aside.

I was aware of the Queen. She was watching us and there was an expression of infinite sadness in her eyes. I knew that she took little pleasure in occasions of this nature, but for this one she must put in an appearance.

I was remembering that she had been married to him for many years. Her youth was over; she looked years older than the King. I thought of all she must have suffered through those miscarriages which had failed to produce the longed-for son. And now she saw him pursuing one of her attendants—myself—and at an entertainment given in honor of her nephew's enemies.

From what I knew of her, her heart was still in Spain. When she spoke of her mother, it was with reverence. I knew she thought often of her childhood, which must have been happy in spite of that stern Spanish Court, because of the love she bore her mother. She had suffered because of the madness of her sister Joanna who had been Queen of Spain and had grown madder when her handsome husband had died. He had cared little for her but she had loved him in her wild, mad way to such a degree that she had his dead body put into a glass case and she carried it around with her wherever she went. Then with the ascendancy of her nephew Charles—a man meant to become a great monarch if anyone was— Katharine felt that her fortunes were going as her mother, Queen Isabella, would have wished. And with the betrothal of her daughter Mary to him, she had been content. But how quickly life changed. Friends of today were enemies of tomorrow. Those whom men loved one day they wanted to be rid of the next.

I felt very sorry for the Queen and I wished it were any but myself whom she must watch being pursued by her faithless husband.

I was glad when the dance was over.

The entertainment must not stop. There would be singing and perhaps we would dance again.

I sang a song, the words of which had been written by one of the Court poets and set to music by another. I knew the King's eyes never left my face as I sang.

He led the applause and then declared he would sing.

“Your Grace,” cried someone, it might have been Norris or Weston, I was not sure. “I crave your pardon, but might I ask a favor?”

The King was all smiles, knowing what was coming. It had happened so often before.

“Could I make the plea that Your Grace will sing one of your own songs?”

Henry appeared to be reluctant. There was a chorus: “Please, Your Grace…on such an occasion.”

“There is a little thing I have recently composed,” he said, smiling happily, and again I felt that twinge of gentleness; his childish vanity seemed so incongruous with all the pomp and ceremony which surrounded him.

He had a pleasant voice and he accompanied himself on the lute which he played with excellence; if we had not had poets at Court like Thomas Wyatt, his verses would have aroused genuine admiration for their skill. Of course they were declared the finest in the Court, but even he must know that it was the aura of royalty which made them so.

I felt again that rush of tenderness. In spite of everything, he looked a little vulnerable, as though pleading with the Court to like his song.

He was singing for me, and the words sent a shiver through me.

Does not the sun dazzle the clearest eyes

And melt the ice and make the frost retire?

The hardest stones are pierced through with tools

The wisest are with Princes made but fools.

The song finished, he laid his lute on his knees and looked ahead of him—his usually rosy cheeks a deeper shade, a special shine in his eyes.

The applause rang out. People were talking all at once.

“A new song, Your Grace. It was beautiful. The music…”

“My own,” said the King.

I did not join in the applause. I sat wondering about the intent behind those words.

“The wisest are with Princes made but fools.” What did he mean? That I was a fool to think myself wise enough to resist him? Did he mean that he would force me into the position he had chosen for me? I could not believe that. I was beginning to understand a little of his character. I knew of the boyish vanity and that strong streak of romance. If I clung to my determination, surely he would never threaten me.

Others sang. Thomas gave them one of his latest poems set to music. A love song which had also been written for me. I wondered if the King knew. He did not look very pleased. Was that because he knew it was for me or because the verses were so much better than his own?

Now there was dancing. The King would be the first to select the lady of his choice, and others would follow.

He was making his way toward me. I closed my eyes and when I opened them I was looking into those blue ones.

My first thought was: God help me. This is serious. He is making his preference known.

He held out his hand. I put mine in his and he held it firmly, smiling at me.

He said: “This night I shall dance with none other.”

I did not answer.

“I want all the world to know that it is you I honor,” he went on.

“It is gracious of you…”

“Oh, Anne,” he said, “have done with this game. I know you are not like the others. I know you hold yourself dear… but not more dear than I do. You have but to ask and whatever it is shall be yours. Only love me as I love you.”

“Your Grace, I cannot. I have explained. I am still of the same mind, and shall remain so.”

“Didst like my song?”

I was silent and he pressed my hand more firmly. “The company did,” he said, almost pleading with me to compliment him.

“The company will always applaud Your Grace.”

“You did not like it?”

“It scanned well. The rhyming was excellent.”

“Then what?”

I would be bold. It might well be that I should offend him and that he would be done with me forever. Perhaps a return to Hever would be preferable to what he was insisting on.

“I do not think the wise can ever be made fools,” I said.

“And the sun does not dazzle?”

“The sun dazzles but it does not change opinions.”

“You would instruct us then?”

“I crave Your Grace's pardon. I thought you asked for my opinion, otherwise I would not have presumed to give it.”

“I am grieved that you did not like my song.”

“There was much that I liked in it.”

“Oh … have done. There are matters of which we two must talk. You know for long I have loved you…ever since you were a saucy girl in your father's garden, you have plagued me. I find little satisfaction in others. And now there is no peace for me at all, and there will not be until you give me that which I crave.”

“Your Grace must forgive me. I am only a simple girl.”

“You… simple! Oh no, Mistress Anne Boleyn, not that. You are wise, are you not? One of those who will not be made fools by princes?”

“Not wise, but I am as I am, and no one could make me other.”

“You are determined to plague me.”

“I would I could please you.”

“Oh Anne, my Anne, it would be so simple.”

“Not for me, Your Grace. I think the Queen needs me. She is looking my way.”

“But I need you.”

“I am one of the Queen's ladies, Your Grace.”

“You are my subject. Forget not that.”

“It is a truth I cannot forget.”

“Come, come. You have been shy long enough. By God's Holy Mother, I love you. None other will do for me. I want your answer.”

“Your Grace, you have had my answer.”

“That you love me not?”

“That I love my honor and I would rather die than give it up. I will be no man's mistress.”

I could see the anger in his face—the spoiled boy who had rarely been denied what he wanted since he came to kingship, and I was frightened by the intensity of his desire for me.

“Think on it,” he said. “And do not be deceived. You are mine. I will not let you escape me.”

The dance could not stop until he decided that it should. It had to go on for some time. The whole of the Court, while they could not hear our dialogue, must be aware of its nature.

I stopped in the dance and bowed to him. He led me back to my place. Although I might appear cool, I was trying to control my trembling limbs.

I lay in bed thinking about everything that had been said. The Court was now aware of the King's passion for me. It was unlike him to make such a public display of his amours; before he had always been discreet. It was only the case of Elizabeth Blount which had become common knowledge, and that had been the most serious of all his love affairs. And now he had recognized her son as his.

I could imagine the gossip. “Not since Elizabeth Blount…”

What could I do? I was afraid. There was a certain anger in his passion. I must remember that he was all-powerful. He could ruin my family just as quickly as he had built it up. I appeared to be in a position to carry on the tradition of the Boleyn women and bolster up the family fortunes. Mary had done it. The honors which had come to my father and George had clearly been due to the King's affection for her. How much more could I do for them?

I should be once more in disgrace. My father would never forgive me. His lands, his appointments at Court, the King's favor, his rising riches were all very dear to him. He despised Mary for her lack of acquisitiveness and her humble marriage to Will Carey, who was as spineless as she was. But he had not hesitated to take the spoils she had brought to him.

I wondered what the King would do. It was clear that he would not lightly accept my refusal. In fact, I had an idea that my reluctance made his desire more urgent. He was a great hunter. He was indefatigable in the chase. It was said that in a day's hunting he never failed to tire eight or ten horses. The joy of pursuit was great, and that evening he had shown me that my reluctance to give way to his wishes only made him more determined to bend me to them.

I did not know what I should do, and I determined on flight.

The next day I asked for an audience with the Queen.

There was no change in her attitude toward me. This proud daughter of Spanish kings would not betray the fact that she was even aware of her husband's infidelities.

I knelt before her. I said: “I wish to leave the Court, Your Grace, and return to my father's house for a while.”

There was a faint flicker of interest in her pale, almost expressionless face.

“When do you wish to go?”

“At once, Your Grace.”

She did not ask the reason. She knew and she applauded my decision. She could not fail to see how hotly the King was pursuing me, and she thought that was the decision of a good and virtuous girl.

“You will take your maid with you?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then leave when you will.”

“I thank Your Grace.”

She gave me a sad little smile. “I hope you will find a solution to your problems, Mistress Boleyn.”

“I thank Your Grace.”

I was dismissed.

And so I returned to Hever.