To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

FOUR

Year of Our Lord 1522

Blickenham Manor, London, England

My mother had arranged for me to spend the months following the Christmas celebrations with my sister, Alice, at her home in Chelsea. So it was with some surprise that, one evening whilst we dined, a messenger arrived with a letter to my sister from our father. She nodded to the servant to set it aside till the meal was over, but her concern showed in her face. Had my mother passed away? Was my father in some kind of trouble? It was rare for him to have a care for me, so I wouldn’t have suspected that it involved me at all except for the burning feeling deep beneath my corset that warned me, preternaturally, that the tide was about to shift.

My nephew John Rogers was Alice’s oldest son, home from Cambridge; he paid no mind at all to the messenger. Rather he kept talking even whilst the serving girl ladled out his soup. “So Cranmer, of course, began to gather a group of us for late-night debates. He said he had been mightily troubled by the discourse that Luther had started and the longer he dwelled on the matter the more troubled his spirit became. Perhaps, he thought, Luther may be right on some points.”

Because Alice was the daughter of my father’s first wife she was much older than I, which meant that John and I were of an age, more like brother and sister than aunt and nephew. He turned directly toward me.

“A friend of yours was invited to the discussions,” he said to me. “Will Ogilvy. Do you remember him?”

Alice shifted in her seat and sent a confidence-inspiring smile in my direction. She often nurtured me when my own mother slipped under the horizon and was unable to attend to the questions and concerns of young womanhood. Alice had mended my broken wings as best she could after Will’s announcement that he would be a priest, reassuring me that she hadn’t married for affection, either, but had grown to love Master Rogers well.

Amenable Alice. Always compliant, making the best of things, peaceful and settled. I could see why my father found me a grave disappointment.

“I do remember Sir William,” I said. “Well.”

“He’s got quite a talent for languages,” John continued, sensing nothing amiss, I was sure, as men often do not. “And for debate. I’m not sure with whom he’s been sparring at rhetoric all of these years because it certainly wasn’t his brother Walter.” He turned to his mother. “I’d like to have Ogilvy to Blickenham sometime. You’ll not mind?”

“Of course he’s welcome,” Alice murmured. I made my way through the soup course as, thankfully, the conversation turned to other matters, and then excused myself from the meal as soon as decently possible.

I wasn’t in my room for long before there was a short knock on the door. “Come in,” I called out, expecting it to be my servant, Edithe. Instead it was my sister. She had a letter in her hand and she came and sat next to me on the bed.

“It’s from Father, as you know,” she began. “He’d like for you to pack your things and return to Allington. He’ll send a cart for you the day after tomorrow.”

I abruptly stood up. “What? Why? I’ve only just arrived.”

She reached up and folded my hand into her own. “It seems he’s found a potential husband for you and they’re coming to visit.”

I arrived home two days hence to find my father in high spirits and my mother aright on her own two feet, which was rare. I knew she meant to wring every last bit of vitality out of her bones to ensure that this meeting went well for my sake and for Father’s.

“Don’t overextend yourself, Lady Wyatt,” my father said, gesturing roughly for a manservant to bring a cushioned chair to the portico so my mother could sit in the sun whilst we waited for our guests to arrive. The manservant hefted a chair and my father had it arranged in the best possible spot before easing my mother into it. I had never seen my father be gentle with anyone or anything other than my mother and his horses. Alice never spoke of her mother; she’d died when Alice was young and Alice had been married off at fifteen—as soon as my own mother arrived at Allington. But I’d overheard the kitchen servants speak of my father’s first wife and he had treated her as rudely as he’d treated me, so I suspected that when he’d given her his hand in marriage it had been often and with blunt force.

Not so with my mother. If I’d been in the frame of mind to thank God for small favors this was one I could have thanked Him for. But I didn’t.

Within the hour we could see a traveling cloud of dust in the distance, winding up the village lane, past the priory, on the way to Allington Castle. The ground shuddered slightly with the force of the oncoming horses. As I stood, I smoothed my hair and my dress, which earned me a rare nod of approval from Father. Thomas was at court and Edmund upstairs with the tutors, so we three navigated our way down to the great hall in which we would shortly greet our guests.

They arrived preceded by a small clutch of attendants, across the brackish moat, and when the carriage door was opened, two men alighted. One was my father’s old friend Lord Blackston, with whom he had fought Richard the Third many years back. The second was his nephew and, as Blackston had no children of his own, the baron’s heir.

My father and Lord Blackston clapped one another on the back and chortled loudly about the gambling my father had arranged for that evening’s entertainment after dinner, though the baron warned my father about cheating him—again. My father, notoriously tight with his money but honest, ignored him. I saw the flash in his eye.

“Lady Wyatt. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” The baron extended his hand toward my mother’s, taking her hand in his and kissing it softly.

My mother lowered her eyes demurely as she withdrew her hand. “Thank you, My Lord. As always, it’s a pleasure to have you as our guest. It’s been too many years.”

He grinned. As he did I could see that whilst he may have won his fortune at the Battle of Bosworth it was clear that he’d forfeited some teeth in exchange.

“And this jewel was naught but a girl at that time.”

I curtseyed politely and heard the man to his side clear his throat.

Lord Blackston turned and urged forward the second man. “My nephew, Simon.” Simon was a good Norman name. Norman blood. Titled. Moneyed. I held out my hand and cast my gaze downward, as gently bred girls are well taught to do.

Simon took my hand in his. My first instinct, which I checked, was to withdraw it immediately. His fingers were long and cool, like recently snuffed tapers. He brought my hand to his parched lips and kissed the back of it. He then let go. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Wyatt. I’ve heard so much about you. But I find that what I’ve heard seems to be untrue.” I looked up at that. Exactly what had he heard about me and from whom?

“You’re far lovelier than I’d been expecting.” With that, he bowed courteously and my mother led the way into Allington.

That evening all the servants were in their best liveries. My father had ordered an entire ox roasted—roasted meat being a sign of wealth—as it showed that we Wyatts had enough money to pay one or two men to do nothing but turn a burdened spit over a hellish inferno all day. There was stuffed swan and pale ale brought from Bruges. And of course, jellied eels. I tried hard not to compare Simon’s fingers to the jellied eels but I found myself unable to enjoy them for the first time ever. Afterward there was music, though no dancing, as dinner was a smallish affair. My mother withdrew and my father and Baron Blackston retreated to a far corner of the great hall where tables had been set up. Several gentlemen from the neighboring properties had arrived to play cards and dice. I wasn’t sure if I was gratified or disappointed when Simon politely declined to join them and instead asked me if I’d ask the musicians to continue to play whilst he and I sat by the fire and kept company.

What could I do? “I’d be pleased to,” I answered, remembering my father’s warning to be kind and submissive to the next man he brought to my side. Scraping hardened horse dung with my bare nails from between the cobbled stones on the path to a Scottish abbey didn’t appeal to me. So Simon and I kept company.

“I’ve heard that your father has seen fit to educate you,” Simon began. I dared to look up at his face. The fire had brought some color to it, which made him more pleasant to look at than he had been in the cool stone dining hall. His smile was not warm, but it was not cruel, either. I was glad of the fact that it would be impolite to look into his eyes for too long. The irises were blue but the whites around them slightly rheumy, perhaps a bit like eggs which had not been cooked quite long enough. They stared at me, however, intently. I became aware that he was expecting an answer.

Would he find my education to his liking? “Yes, my father found my mother’s education pleasing to him and had me educated along with my brothers.” I answered as safely as I knew how.

“What have you studied?” He folded his long fingers over his knee and used the movement as an excuse to move slightly closer to me on the covered bench. I held myself steady so as not to flinch. I looked into his eyes as I spoke, hoping that he wouldn’t misread my desire to gauge his response as a desire for intimacy.

“I studied mathematics and rhetoric, Latin and letters,” I began. His eyes held mine and betrayed no emotion but I thought I saw a slight downward dip in the corner of his mouth.

“And dancing, of course, and needlework. I can play the lute. And my mother has schooled me on household management.” At that he smiled.

“Yes, yes, of course she would have. I am sure you play a fine lute. I’d like to hear it.” He looked as though he were about to signal a musician. I quickly held up my hand.

“Perhaps tomorrow?” My voice was soft as carded wool. “I feel a bit tired now, the excitement of the day….”

“Of course,” he said. He spoke at length about their property up north, which I knew to be extensive, their many castles and land-holdings. Lord Blackton’s sister had been his mother, and when she had died shortly after his father at the Bosworth Field the baron had taken him in and raised him. In spite of having married several times, the baron had sired no child of his own.

“I think you might like the north, mistress,” he said after I’d admitted I’ve never been north of London. “It’s very family-oriented for the lady of the manor. There are serfs and peasants to attend to and alms to give. Servants to attend to, birthings and the like, and quite a bit of needlework, of course.”

“Sounds…. bucolic.” I reached past the first three or four words that presented themselves to me to snatch one that might sound faintly praiseworthy.

He nodded. I wasn’t entirely certain he knew what “bucolic” meant.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must ensure that my mother is well settled for the evening, and then perhaps it is time to retire myself.” I kept my voice soothing and pleasant. I hardly recognized myself. I sounded like Alice. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation, but then again it reminded me of the times when I, as a girl, had slipped into her adult gowns. Mayhap it was time I grew into them. I smiled at him warmly because he truly had been a gentleman in every way. He was very…. proper.

“Of course.” He stood immediately and held out his hand to assist me as I stood. I took it, and he turned it over, kissing the inside of my palm this time, rather than the back of it, which gave me some discomfort. After a careful curtsey to my father and his friends, I made my way to my chamber.

Days later Lord Blackston and Simon led the dust cloud back the way they had come, down from Allington, past the priory, and toward the guesthouse many miles away that would be their first stay on the days’ journey north. It had been no small feat, nor small honor, that they came to Allington to meet me. Of that I was aware. I suspected, however, that I had failed in my mission because from the second day forward Simon had noticeably cooled toward me.

My father called me into his study. Edmund was already there, thumbing through a book, trying to look scholarly, and I had to grant that he had a quick wit. Numbers and accounts, though, they were what he preferred. In that he was as far from my brother Thomas as two brothers could be. My father, now sharing responsibilities for the king’s treasury with Anne’s father, was as miserly with his money as Anne’s father was generous. Edmund took after our father in that way, and our father applauded him for it.

“You’ve done well, mistress,” my father said to me. He indicated that I was to sit in the chair next to him.

It was done then. I was to be married.

“Lord Blackston and I will be in negotiations for terms, and if we come to some that are agreeable to us both, and I expect we will, you will be betrothed to him anon.”

In the front of my mind I thought that surely I had misheard, but the back of my mind heard Edmund breathing his peculiar stalking breath and it warned me that perhaps I had heard correctly after all.

“Sir, did I mishear you? Surely you meant to say that you are arranging for my possible betrothal to Simon, My Lord Blackston’s heir?” I kept my breath steady and my gaze low. The carved wood of the arm of the chair became a focal point.

“You heard me correctly,” Father answered. “At first, Blackston and I had expected to come to some kind of an arrangement for you and for young Simon. However, after laying eyes upon you he found you pleasing to look at and thought that perhaps a nubile young bride would bring him a son of his own after these many long years. His nephew had already reported to him that you have a pleasing manner. He’s convinced that he should take you for himself.”

A minute slipped by. Then another. “He is nearly of an age with you,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

That was all, yes. I had no say in the matter. Lord Cobham could repudiate me because I had rebuked him, which he found disagreeable; no matter if I found him agreeable or not. I had to prove myself pleasing to Simon, and Baron Blackston, but they did not have to prove anything to me. I had questions; my father was not required, nor inclined, to give me answers. I was to marry a man whose skin was as loose as his sputum.

“May I speak?”

My father nodded. I tried my very best to cloak myself with a quiet spirit of gentility.

“I do not think I can love him,” I said. I hoped he would understand. After all, he so clearly loved my mother.

“Love!” He snorted. “Listen to what Thomas’s cursed poetry has wrought in you. It’s a plague upon the sensibilities of my house. You, Mistress Wyatt, will hold your tongue and be obedient as you have so recently learnt. And if God shall bless you with children by Lord Blackston, then you will thank God that through them your name will not be buried in the earth. Think no further of love.”

He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I curtseyed and fled the room.

I rushed to my chambers and then fast locked the door behind me. My maid, Edithe, was in my room preparing for my evening’s dressing. I flung myself on the bed and she came and stood beside me. “Can I get something for you, mistress?”

I looked into her wear-worn face. Though she was perhaps only five years older than I, she had already borne two children who lived with her mother because she spent most days and nights here at Allington serving me well. Her husband was a field hand at Hever Castle. Disregarding social boundaries I let my horror spill out.

“I am not like my mother, bless her, to want to take purpose in life by the breeding of those who are to follow me. I do not yearn for meaningless ritual, not in worship, not in friendship, not in womanhood, not in marriage, nor in life. How can I live the life I desire?”

She handed me a kerchief to dry my eyes but she spoke to me honestly, not soothingly, woman to woman. “You cannot live a life you desire. Our destiny is not ours to choose. Even Mistress Boleyn must hie her to court because her father and His Grace the Duke of Norfolk ha’ decided her expensive French education shall be put to their good use.”

I took her coarse hands in mine for a moment, admonished by her harsh life, and then I went to bed and wept silent, angry tears of protest that I knew would profit me not at all. In the middle of the night I got up and looked in the trunk where I’d stored Will’s letters. They were gone. I was devastated by the loss of the only physical tokens of our love—papers his hands and mine had touched, breathed upon, kissed. And further, my joints jellied at the thought of them in someone else’s hands, but I dared not make inquiries lest I draw attention to their existence and bring down a rain of abuse.

But Edithe’s comments had given me an idea. I would go to Anne. She would know what to do.

My father, of course, pleased with himself and with me in an odd way, gave me leave the very next day to ride out and visit her. I’d have a short stay and then return.

It was too cold for a walk in the gardens, so we sat in Sir Thomas’s great hall and worked at wretched needlework near the fire for an excuse to talk. She had not been long home from France, having returned with her father after the king’s great meeting at the Field of Cloth of Gold in Calais. I plied the needle whilst she wove the story.

“It was magnificent, Meg,” she told me. “I had thought that perhaps our court was coarse and unsophisticated, missing a certain je ne sais quoi, and I was not looking forward to returning home from Queen Claude’s court,” she said—then she must have caught the look on my face. “Though I missed you, of course, and my lady mother.” She had not mentioned her sister, Mary.

“But I tell you, the king was formidable. He wrestled with Francis and could have won, but he allowed Francis to prevail, which only endeared him to us more. His words were fine; he cut a better figure of a man. I knew, then, that I could come back to England and that, for certes, my fate is here.”

“Mine is too,” I said morosely. I’d poured my story out to her the moment my courtesies with her mother had concluded and we were in private.

Anne set down her needlework. “Come with me to court,” she said.

“What?”

“Come with me to court. It will take some time for your betrothal negotiations to be completed—my father has been working on mine with Butler for years. In the meantime, I go to court with my father in March and you shall come with us!”

Now I set down my needlework. It would certainly appeal to my father—raise my family’s stature for me to be at court in even a minor capacity in Queen Katherine’s household. Sir Thomas rode high in the king’s esteem since the success at Calais, so Baron Blackston could certainly have no objection. And I might never get another chance. When Anne married Piers Butler she’d be off to Ireland.

Anne settled the matter, as she often did, without waiting for my agreement. “I’ll have my father write a letter to yours and you can take it with you upon your return.”

The next day I returned to Allington, the letter from Sir Thomas clutched in my hand. I stilled my wrist as I held it out to my father. I was almost tempted to pray for a positive response, but no need. He agreed. I would leave for court in a little more than one month’s time. My mother was overjoyed and we spent many hours together planning what I would pack in the trunks I’d bring. One day, after she’d left my chamber, Edmund appeared like a sudden onset of disease.

“The court nourishes itself on compromise, taking in the very people who like to pretend that they are good and then retching them out after they cede their alleged moral standards one by one.”

“Pity you’re not coming then,” I retorted. “It sounds like someplace you would thrive.”

“Oh, I’ll get there, after I help Father negotiate your marriage portion,” Edmund said. “I’ll be there to watch as you are broken.”

I dismissed him but couldn’t dismiss his accusations as readily. Would the court bend me to its will too?