To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

ELEVEN

Year of Our Lord 1530

Windsor Castle

Hampton Court Palace

Greenwich Palace

At the start of the year Henry raised Thomas Boleyn to the position of Lord Privy Seal, the third-highest position in the land and one normally reserved for clergy. Only a year before, Cardinal Wolsey would have received this honor, but Henry’s affections, and motivations, had swiftly changed course. He was about to send Lord Boleyn off to Bologna, along with Cranmer, to argue one last time with the pope and Charles the Fifth, who was now Holy Roman Emperor, for a divorce from Katherine. I can’t have been the only person who saw the irony, yea, perhaps the predestined failure, in sending Anne’s father to Katherine’s nephew to ask for a divorce. Mayhap it had been designed to fail.

In any case, Anne was now Lady Rochford, daughter of an earl. Not all of the nobility who had been raised high by the king for the comfort and pleasure they gave him were pleased with her elevation. One day, shortly after Anne’s father left, I made my way down the great hall with Anne and my sister, Alice, talking of Alice’s children—and now a grandchild—and other topics of general discourse among women. Without warning, Charles Brandon, the king’s closest friend and brother-in-law, stepped to block my path. The king was with him. I stopped abruptly and curtseyed deeply, as did my sister. Anne left our side to slip her arm through the king’s.

“Your Grace?” I addressed myself to the Duke of Suffolk, as it had been he who’d closed our path.

“Good day, My Lady,” he said. “Mistress Rogers, Lady Rochford.” He included Anne in the address but did not turn to face her. Instead, he looked at my sister and me. “I hear your brother shall be at court anon.”

“Thomas?” Alice answered. “Oh no. He serves the king faithfully in Calais.”

“Nay, I speak of your other brother, Edmund,” Suffolk said.

This threw me. Edmund? Coming to court? And why would someone as highly placed as the Duke of Suffolk know, or care?

“Lady Rochford shall be glad of his company, for certes,” Suffolk went on. “I hear they had quite a romance in their youth.”

“Not Edmund,” I blurted out. “Thomas.” Alice’s eyes grew wide and I saw Anne’s face drain. I felt light of head at what I’d just been trapped into admitting. Fool! My tongue was my enemy. I looked at Suffolk and he grinned with glee. He turned to the king, triumph at hand.

Then Anne spoke. “Thomas and I were naught but childhood friends, no romance at all. Mayhap this is something that His Grace the Duke of Suffolk cannot grasp, as it seems to him that unseemly affection for a child is something that continues into adulthood?”

There came a titter of laughter from those gathered around us and a howl from the king, who enjoyed Anne’s wit as it wasn’t trained against him. Charles Brandon was widely believed to be romancing his young son’s intended bride, twelve-year-old Katherine Willoughby, under his guardianship, though his own wife was very much alive.

“Good day, Your Grace,” Anne said, and the king led her, chuckling, down the hall. Blood suffused Brandon’s neck and the whites of his eyes as he bowed curtly to us and took his leave.

“Watch out for him,” Alice whispered to me as we made our way to my quarters, which were more sumptuous than hers.

My mind was on the more pressing problem. Why was Edmund coming?

Late that night, after I’d already gone to bed, I heard a knock at my door. I’d already dismissed Edithe so I got up to open it myself. It was Anne, splendidly adorned.

“Come, come.” I motioned her into my room. “’Tis late. Is all well?” Afore she could answer I rushed out an apology. “I’m so sorry for what I said today to the duke. He trapped me. And I know this couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

She cocked her head at me. “How do you mean?”

I pressed on, wishing I’d said nothing at all, which was becoming a common sentiment. “Well, you know, people are…. grumbling about your father being made Lord High Privy Seal. And the queen having been sent away. And…. you,” I finished lamely.

She waved an authoritative hand. “Let them grumble. That’s how it’s going to be. Listen, I have news for you. Edmund will arrive tomorrow to tell you that your husband has passed away.”

I pulled my robe around me against the chill that the stone walls caught and kept before settling into a chair by the now-dead fire. Anne reached her arm around me. “’Tis a shock, I know, but I thought it best come from me and not from Edmund. He’d like as play your surprise to his advantage.”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” I said. “’Twas not unexpected, of course. And I did not love him. But he was a kind man, in his own way.”

Certain now that I was all right, she backed away. “Now you shall have your marriage stipend and that will allow you to live as you like, where you like. But of course you’ll stay with me, for certain?”

It was phrased as a question but spoken as an order. I could settle on one of my properties, or in a town house near my sister. Although I wanted to right the balance in our friendship by stating I was not sure, truth be told, neither of those options appealed. But I was hardly going to let her overpower our friendship, queen-to-be or not.

“Is that a request or a command, my lady?” I asked coolly.

She locked eyes with me. “Touché,” she said, and softened her voice. “It is a request from one friend to another.”

I nodded. “Of course I shall stay with you.”

Satisfied, she kissed my cheeks one by one, in the French style. “And now to get some sleep, dear Meg. I shall speak with you tomorrow, or mayhap the day after, as I am increasingly engaged in court matters.”

Then she took her leave. Edmund would arrive within hours.

The next day I remained in my apartments waiting for Edmund to appear. Anne, the de facto queen, had given me leave to do so, and as I did not want to miss Edmund I pulled out some unwelcome stitchery to while away the hours. Anne had set all of her ladies upon sewing for the poor, which some took to be false concern on her part, but we close to her knew better. I had not long to wait. Shortly after midday Edithe came softly to my private chamber. “Edmund is here, my lady,” she said.

“Show him to the sitting room,” I instructed her. “And bring him ale and some sweet meats. I shall be there anon.”

I waited a few minutes to let the ale calm his temper and then I went in to greet him. “You look wonderful, Edmund,” I said. The way to deal with a devil, I’d learned, is to speak to him as magnanimously as he speaks to himself.

“Yes, thanks be. And so do you,” he said more by way of custom than by belief. “Please, be seated.” He nodded toward the chair next to him and I did as he told me to, thankful that Anne had brought me this news early and I was therefore not at a disadvantage. “I’m afraid I bring ill tidings,” he began. “But also good.”

My curiosity was piqued now. I knew the ill tidings. “Go on,” I encouraged him.

“Sadly, Baron Blackston has passed away, God rest his soul.” He crossed himself. If ever there was a more blasphemous action than seeing Edmund claim the cross over himself I was not sure what it was. I crossed myself against him though I suspect he thought it was for the departed baron.

“He was a kind man,” I said, feeling genuine remorse. “And yet this was not completely unexpected. His age, his ill health…. he shared with me his certainty that he would soon depart this world at our last visit.”

“Yes,” Edmund said. “I am sorry for you. But along with these ill tidings I bring some that are glad. The new Baron Blackston, Simon, wishes to take you as a bride. So you’ll not lose your title.”

This was his glad tiding? I took a care not to show my shock and dismay. And then I remembered. I need not say yes.

“What a kind offer,” I said, not bothering to conceal my sarcasm. I tried to gather my thoughts. “I shall think upon it.”

Edmund’s face turned stony. “What is there to think upon? The man has offered, I have agreed, and you have nowhere else to go.”

“I am welcome at court,” I said, nodding to Edithe to refill his mug of ale. “And I have my marriage portion to support me, and the manor the king granted me as a wedding gift.”

So there. I am not dependent upon your lack of good graces.

A wicked grin stole across his face; he licked his lips and it put me in mind of a reptile. “Alas, there is no marriage portion for you.” I scarce could breathe but he continued on. “A widow’s third is only allocated if consummation can be sworn upon. Can you swear upon it?”

I indicated nothing but clearly he knew I’d remained a maiden. How?

“When your dowry was negotiated,” he continued, “it was to be paid in portions over five years. If the baron was to die without issue within five years of the marriage, then half of the portion would be returned to Father, who would agree to care for you as a widow.” He spread his hands in mock concern. “Alas, ’tis not yet five years and, as you have no issue by the baron, the monies shall return to Father for your care. The other half will remain with Simon, Baron Blackston. There is no jointure nor inheritance for you.”

“And what does Father think of this?” I stood up and demanded.

“Father has slipped into twilight most days. He has left family matters in my charge.”

“So you’ve agreed to all of this on my behalf?” I said.

“Not completely. The baron is not yet buried a fortnight. But I suspect that Simon and I shall come to some understanding after I return from France, where I go to attend to the king’s business. Simon must visit all of his new properties and estates. But we shall come to an agreement anon.”

“And if I disagree?”

“You have no dowry, sister. It has been spent. You have no marriage portion. Even the king won’t keep you forever. What else will you do?” He stood up and I resisted the urge to slap him.

“Thank you, Brother. And give my thanks to My Lord Blackston, Simon, as well.” My voice was thick with scorn.

Edmund pulled on his gloves and prepared to take his leave. “No need, Baroness. You can thank him yourself at the king’s dinner two nights hence. He’ll be here for the festivities.”

The dining hall at Hampton Court Palace was ablaze with candles; light shone from every corner, at every table, and surrounded the king’s table, at the head of the room, like the aura of the sun. We were to be seated in the front third of the room, and when Alice and I arrived at our table I was glad I had taken care to wear a finely wrought dress, in dark blue so as to recognize my husband’s passing, and my diamond earrings. My hair was pulled back and up under a net, as a widow’s should be, but I knew it was a becoming style on me. “It appears we’re to sit in Kentish Corner,” my sister whispered teasingly, her daughter Margaret, new at court and named for me, trailing along behind us. I raised my eyes to our seats and saw what she meant. At our table were already seated the Earl of Blenheim and his son and heir, Rose Ogilvy’s husband. Rose was there again, large with the promise of another child. Her brother Walter and his wife both looked peaked. The Earl of Asquith ignored me entirely, so I greeted his daughter.

“I bid you good evening, Rose,” I said.

“Margaret. ’Tis good to see you again,” she responded coolly. I held my hand out to her husband, who kissed it. I then turned to greet her brother Walter. “How fares your family, My Lord?” At that I heard my sister clear her throat warningly.

“We grieve the loss of our son, but as my wife is young still we shall expect more soon,” he said. Grief was fixed upon his thin face.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said. I had not been aware that his young son had died. “I am acquainted with loss myself.” He looked me in the eye and held it for a moment before speaking. He knew I meant my love for his brother.

“I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death, Baroness,” he said. My brother Edmund joined us, as did Simon, who let his eyes explore me disconcertingly. I noted that they lingered upon parts of myself that should be noted only by a husband or a seamstress and I turned to take my seat. As she sat with the king, we were missing Anne from our reunion.

And Will, of course.

My brother introduced Simon to the assembled guests at our table. He didn’t mention the fact that Simon and I were to be betrothed, of course. It would not have been proper for at least a year. When he was introduced to Walter, Simon’s eyes focused.

“Do you have a brother?” he asked.

“Yes,” Walter responded. “My brother William. A priest soon home from Antwerp.”

Unwillingly, unwittingly, I had to believe, nearly every eye at the table turned to me, including Simon’s, whose bored into me. I could feel them. I met no glance and instead turned to quietly instruct my niece, who would need to display stamina for the five to seven hours dinner might take at Henry’s court. Soon enough the servers brought the first of nigh on twenty courses: roast porpoise and salmon pie; figs stewed till they were tender; manchet of the finest, whitest wheat; roast goose with honey and almond paste. I ate but little and drank less, wanting to keep my wits about me. As soon as the meal was over, the king declared it time for dancing and we followed him into the great hall, which was grand indeed. Even the ceiling was intricately sculptured, though the faces carved within, the Gossips, sent a shiver through me.

Simon took my hand afore the first note was struck. I noticed my brother Edmund had pressed in to quickly take the hand of the young raven-haired Charlotte, who had been seated with the Ogilvys. She was their ward, I believed. I should have to ask Alice if Edmund and Charlotte had been her idea.

“Meg, I am sorry about the loss of your husband. You should know that I cared for him as I would care for a father.” Simon drew me as near as was socially respectable.

“Thank you,” I said. “I thought he was a kind man, though we didn’t get to know one another well.”

At this, a smirk crossed his face. Of a sudden, I knew he was thinking I meant in the way a man knows a woman. He knew!

“I am sorry for his loss,” Simon said as we danced. “But glad for my gain.”

“You mean because he died with no son of his own?” I said, having not a care if I offended Simon at this moment.

“Alas, ’twas not to be, through no fault of your own for certes, My Lady,” he said. “Indeed, I am his heir and he left ample accounts. No, I was thinking on bounty of another sort. Mayhap that is conversation left for another time. I shall be back to court after I make the rounds of the properties. As soon as a…. suitable time has passed.”

I nodded and held his sleeve and kept a deceptively gentle smile on my face. “Thank you. It’s been difficult to come to understand all of these changes, as you can well imagine. Why, I have not even been able to sleep well these past days since Edmund brought me the news.” I mocked dull feminine wiles.

He smiled down at me. “Have not another care. I shall have Meredith bring a draught to your lady maid which will aid you. I find it at a physic in London.”

I put my head down demurely to conceal my response. The Duke of Suffolk is not the only member of court able to coax an unwilling thought from an unguarded mind. I watched Edmund, who appeared as near happy as I’d ever seen him, dance with the Ogilvys’ young ward. His warning about how the court would change me rang in my ears.

Yes, Edmund, you were right. But here we must be wily as the serpent as well as gentle as the dove.

Serpents were not far from my mind throughout the remainder of the year. In October the king learned that the archbishop of York, Thomas Wolsey, so recently demoted, had been in secret negotiations with Charles the Fifth on behalf of the banished queen. There was no word for it other than treason, which Henry never brooked. The king summoned Wolsey to appear before him. Wolsey died, apparently in justifiable fright, en route. No mourning took place. When the king was told that the man who had served him selflessly for decades had died, he declined to interrupt his archery lessons to comment. I wondered if Anne felt vindicated in any way—over the Percy affair—but she, wisely, said nothing.

Rather than be buried in the fine black marble tomb Wolsey had prepared for himself, the king had him interred, without monument, in obscure Leicester Abbey.

One day I was with Anne and a gaggle of other ladies when the king strode into the Long Hall. He approached Anne and drew her near him as he went to the head of the room to take his throne in advance of a diplomatic meeting. She indicated I should come along with her; I suspected Henry had told her he wanted to share a word with me.

The king looked upon me. “We are sorry for your loss, Baroness.”

I curtseyed and looked down for a moment before meeting his gaze. “Thank you, Your Majesty. The baron was a good man.”

The king nodded. “That we know well. He fought with our father, and indeed, with yours, at Bosworth.”

I said nothing, knowing that conversation was not required nor perhaps even welcome.

“Your father shall find you another husband anon,” he said. “Or your brother. ’Tis not good to remain unmarried too long.” At that he turned to Anne and grinned, his teeth wolflike behind his fair beard, and yet the sexuality and power of the man were almost unbearable. Anne smiled back but there was some strain that, having known her so long, was clear to me. I took my leave but not before watching as the king’s eyes searched for and found a pretty young maid of honor. She smiled modestly, yet flirtatiously, and held his gaze.

I looked up at Anne. She’d seen it too. The look on her face told me that it had not been an unfamiliar sight.