To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

SIXTEEN

Year of Our Lord 1533

Greenwich Palace

Whitehall Palace

His Highness had decided to start the new year off with a bearbaiting. As his bear garden was not quite finished at Whitehall, he traveled the court to Southwark, in the midst of the stews south of London. We boarded a dozen or more finely appointed barges, I along with Anne in Henry’s fine boat, and graciously sailed our way up the river to enjoy the brutality.

Henry and Anne sat in the royal seats, I next to Anne, and, curiously enough, an empty seat remained next to Henry. I raised my eyebrows and looked in the direction but Anne shook her head to discourage me from asking any questions. Though he were married to my dearest friend, Henry was still king and had not a word for me. I do not think he noticed me at all, truth be told. I was content with that. Like the hare, I had no desire to attract the eye of the hawk.

The bear was already chained when we arrived. “I like it best when they are chained by the leg and not by the neck,” one of Anne’s lesser ladies said to me. “’Tis better sport when they can reach out to smack the dogs.” Many placed bets on the outcome of the baiting. I noticed that the future Countess of Blenheim, Will’s sister, Rose, was a particularly enthusiastic gambler.

Women could be partial to blood sport too.

Afore the dogs were set loose someone slid into the seat next to Henry—Cranmer, the priest whom Henry had appointed to be the next archbishop of Canterbury. The old archbishop had passed on some months before and Henry, Anne told me, was eager to replace him with someone who would be sympathetic to His Highness’s philosophies.

Cranmer was a learned man, a good man, an admired priest, and, of course, a reformer who had been convicted to sola scriptura. He’d also been chaplain to the Boleyns and I knew Anne had a firm hand in his appointment.

The bear caller shouted out, “Tha dogs’ll be loose soon, set about ta worry the great beast in fronta ya.” He glanced up at the king and, as he did, seemed worried a bit himself at his royal patron. “I baited ’im with blood meself afore the evenin’ came so’s he’s as heated as one a th’ old bawds in the stews!”

Henry guffawed at the lewd joke before turning to the priest. “Cranmer!” he boomed. “’Tis a good sight to see you. I’ve a mind to settle our discourse on the archbishopric.”

“As you wish, sire,” Cranmer said.

Was there ever a phrase that Henry found more dear?

We all kept our eyes on the bear as well as the dogs now loosed to attack it, but our ears belonged to the king.

“You can plan to celebrate Easter Mass and, uh”—Henry fumbled, uncharacteristically, for a moment—“Whitsunday as archbishop.”

Cranmer noted. “’Tis as good as done, then, sire?”

“’Tis as good as done.”

The dogs challenged the bear, who lashed out at them, barking, biting, baiting. Chained, the bear could not reach them when they backed away from him. “I can like as feel his breath steam my neck when he roars,” I whispered to Anne. She nodded, but I could tell she was mainly concerned with what Henry was saying.

“I shall prepare my thoughts to be read aloud after being invested,” Cranmer said. It was getting harder to overhear them now, as the crowd roared along with the bear and barked out encouragement of its own.

“You are, of course, sovereign in all ways now, in your own realm. Parliament shall pass that quickly as well. But, Your Majesty, if any should protest?” Cranmer asked.

Henry didn’t answer him; instead, he stood to cheer, for at that very moment the great blond bear broke his chain and roared at the dogs, one after another, violently felling each with a mighty swipe of his paw.

We were rowed home late, and after helping Anne I returned to my room and let Edithe help me undress. I would need my sleep. The next night I would entertain my brothers, Edmund and Thomas, in my apartments, for dinner.

“Welcome, Brothers.” I opened the door to my chambers myself. Edithe had helped me to get dressed and Anne had her chef prepare a rich meal to be delivered and had also kindly loaned me one of her menservants.

Thomas breezed in, hugged me tightly, and gave me two kisses on each cheek and one on the top of my head. After popping a sugared plum in his mouth he sat down at my table and poured himself a cup of spiced wine.

Edmund, always more reserved, took my hand, but he, too, looked to be in high spirits. Edithe glanced at him and they held a gaze of a moment. She looked frightened. Edmund looked confused as to why she was looking at him at all. She quickly curtseyed to me and then left the room. The look that went between them was odd; I could not judge what it meant but I knew it wasn’t natural.

Anne’s manservant relit a candle that had blown out and then served the oxen and light manchet. Thomas ate hungrily, Edmund sparingly. He mostly talked.

“Baron Blackston is here,” he said. “He’ll be at the masque tomorrow night, looking for you.”

“Of course,” I said. “Is everything…. settled?”

Edmund nodded. “Simon shall discuss it with you himself but yes, as your brothers, we wanted to let you know that ’tis all settled. I handled the financial matters, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. I was sure he would be oblivious to my irony.

“And Thomas, as eldest brother, of course made the final decision that ’twould be best if you married. ’Tis his right, of course, as Father is…. unwell.”

I looked at Thomas, who would not meet my gaze. “Certainly.” My voice was stony. We made small talk of Allington and Edmund seemed of a lighter mood, even talking about perhaps bringing a bride home soon and that the place could use the warmth of a woman’s touch.

I pity the woman who must warm you with her caresses, I thought. But I’d learnt to keep my tongue better disciplined.

After an hour or so they made their departure. I tried to get Thomas alone so I could speak with him privately but he stayed well out of my reach. Edmund ensured that Thomas left afore him and closed the door behind them both.

As soon as Anne’s serving man cleared the plate and left, Edithe came rushing out into the large chamber. She fell on her knees and clung to my dress.

“Mistress, I must repent. Can you forgive me?”

“Rise, Edithe. Whatever do you mean?” I’d never seen her distraught; rather, ’twas usually I who was distraught and she of a firm mind.

“He came today. He were asking questions, he were. About those letters from Master Will, to you.”

I sat her down in a chair by the fire and then pulled another one alongside her. “Who did? Who asked for my letters?”

“’Twas Master Simon, ’twas. He said Miss Rose, I mean, the countess, told him that there were letters betwixt you and her brother Will and that she herself had delivered many and found them to be…. indelicate.”

Indelicate? Hardly. Mayhap expressive. But not indelicate.

“The letters are long gone,” I reassured her. “’Tis nothing to worry about. They have been gone for years.”

She began to cry again. “He asked me if I knew where they was, lady. He said he’d hurt my Roger and see to it that he never worked again if ’n I didn’t confess exactly as it was.”

Now I was shaking. “But you don’t know where they are. Do you, Edithe?”

She nodded. “I do. I took them from you when you were a young girl and had to marry old Baron Blackston. Thought I was doing you a favor, putting Will out of your mind if not out of your heart. I brought the letters to Hever Castle and hid them ’hind a slat in the barn. Thought it not right to destroy them, they not being my property and all.”

I stood up. “Did you tell this to Simon?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, lady. But I was right vexed for my Roger.” I turned to gaze out the dark window and think. After a moment she added, quietly, “I didn’t tell him about your copy of Master Tyndale’s Bible, though. He didn’t ask.”

I turned to her. “You’ve found that?”

“I’m your lady maid, mistress. I know everything about you.”

Well, at least my calm, plainspoken Edithe was back. I sighed. “’Tis good.”

“I suppose now that I’ve, now that I’ve sinned awful against you I shan’t be able to read Holy Writ anymore. But ’twas in reading it for meself that I learnt to come and beg forgiveness. I canna understand Latin, course, so mostly I canna understand what ’tis the priest says at Mass.”

I tried to keep the look of shock off my face. “You can read?” As soon as I’d said it I was sorry I had. “I mean, you have read it?”

She smiled. “I can read, mistress. Once I found that you had that copy, well, I traded favors with one of the seamstresses who can read. I would work on her sleeves of an evening after you’d gone to bed and she’d teach me how to read. I learnt right quick! And oh, how I’ve loved hearing from our blessed Lord meself. Who could have thought it? ’Tis as if He’s here right aside me!”

The lightness of her face reminded me of Will’s when he’d given the Bible to me. I felt some shame for the carelessness with which I’d treated Tyndale’s work, God’s word, seeking my own comfort within its pages but not the writer Himself. Bilney could be burnt and Edithe spent from lack of sleep and yet I read not but selfishly for my own relief.

I reached my arm out to her. “You may, of course, read it at any time. But I will tell you now. ’Tis not my copy. Do you understand?”

She looked confused but agreed with me. “Yes, my lady, if you say so.”

“If I don’t own a copy, and someone should come looking for it, you can rightly tell them that I do not own one.”

She smiled then. “I understand. But…. what shall you do about Master Simon?”

“I do not know, Edithe. I do not know. I shall pray.”

I sent her to bed and then undressed myself in the chill and quickly crawled under my coverlet. I brought Master Tyndale’s translation with me and left one solitary candle lit in the wrought iron candelabra beside my bed. I paged through the Gospel According to Saint Matthew again and saw nothing to spark me. I closed my eyes. I wasn’t used to praying without a book of hours to guide me. I missed its reassuring direction.

I freely admit that I come seeking only an answer and comfort, though I wish ’twere not so. I am weak and I am sorry, but I need assistance. What shall I say when Simon asks me of the letters? In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I crossed myself and then flipped back to the Epistle of Saint Paul to the Romans, chapter 8, and lightly touched the daisy wreath, the one remaining symbol of my love for Will and his for me, the love, as it were, that placed me in this pinch.

I read, What shall we then say unto these things? If God be on our side: who can be against us?

I blew out the light and then, in the darkness, whispered, “Please be on my side.”

* * *

Now that Henry was married, and it had been consummated, he was ever in a festive mood. I did not understand why, but from mid-January on he grew even more benevolent in his manner and entertainment. A masque celebrating the seasons, though we were in the grip of icy January, was to be held that night. Anne went dressed as summer, her gown a becoming green and her rubies having been set as apples, a badge of fertility.

Henry went “disguised” as the sun.

I helped Anne dress, and as I did, I leaned over and whispered in her ear about the letters Simon had found. She dismissed her other ladies for a moment.

“Were they intimate?” she asked.

“Not unbecomingly so,” I answered. “But there would be no room for misunderstanding where our hearts lay.”

She nodded and took my hand. “Mayhap you tell him they were a childish infatuation?”

I looked down.

“I know you do not like to misspeak,” she said. “But you needn’t tell him that your affections persist. For your safety’s sake,” she said, and I nodded. All knew that women, as chattel, had as many rights as a horse or a plow. We were ever dependent upon the good graces of the men placed over us.

“Well spoken,” I said.

“Although Henry and court business take up more and more of my time, my concern and affections for you are ever constant,” she said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. She recalled the other ladies and we set about the finishing touches of her preparation.

I sat near Anne at a table with her other ladies-in-waiting, dressed in a gown of russet with layers of mauve, gowns slashed becomingly to reveal the gold kirtle underneath. Though it may have been more popular to appear as spring or summer I knew my looks did better with the warm colors of autumn. I saw Anthony; he met my gaze and looked at me appreciatively but spent the evening admirably concentrating on the wisp of a girl destined, I supposed, to be his wife. Shortly after the music began, Simon, in magnificent winter gray, swooped in and compelled me to dance.

“My bride,” he said, yet there was no softness in his voice. His cold hands had grown stronger since the last time I’d seen him, and his face harder. I suspected that the title, and the power and money that went with it, had given him courage. And conceit.

“Sir,” I said. “’Tis good to see you again. When did you arrive?”

“A few days hence,” he said. “With only a small retinue of servants to attend to my needs.” A volta was struck up, the most intimate of dances, and Simon took the occasion to hold me even closer, tighter, for certes, than was comfortable.

“Not Meredith?” It had seemed to me that, though she had formally been Baron Blackston’s maid, she had spent much of her time abiding with Simon.

He fairly spat on the dance floor. “Harlot. She became with child from, who knows, some stable boy, I suppose. I turned her out in her shift. No, I’ll leave it to the next baroness to choose the women servants from now on.”

I noticed that he hadn’t said he’d leave it to me. The music changed to something softer, slower. He drew me near as a lover and nestled his mouth near my neck. I felt near to suffocation but pressed forward. “Since we speak of serving maids, my own lady maid, Edithe, said you had come to pay her a call.”

He pulled away, angry, I saw, that I had raised the topic afore he could. “Shall we sit and talk, my lady?”

I nodded and he led me to a vacant table. After sipping some small beer he began the conversation. “The future Countess of Blenheim had suggested to me, upon my arrival, that there were some correspondence I may want to be aware of. She has deep-seated feelings of family loyalty but felt compelled by her noble sense of honor to share with me that you and her brother, the priest, William, had been writing to one another. I went to inquire of you and, as you were out, asked your lady maid for her assistance.”

“Edithe indicated to me that you threatened her, not asked for her help,” I responded.

He snorted contemptuously. “You believe a lowborn serving girl over the titled man you hope to marry?”

I did not respond.

“I had my man ride out to Hever and, ah, acquire the letters. I’ve read them. They please me not.”

“Your man must have had to race to Kent and back without stopping. And ’tis not often pleasing to read mail intended for another. Thievery begets bad sentiments all round,” I said.

“’Tis not thievery for a man to investigate whether or not his bride has been compromised. So, here is my thought, my love. There are no dates on the letters. Mayhap they were written when you were a child, a child who had been wayward and mayhap not well disciplined or brought up to know that this kind of discourse between a man and a maid is unseemly. Or mayhap, as the countess has intimated to me, some of these letters are more recent, between a priest and a woman who is intended for another.”

He grew quiet as a servant came to refill his mug and mine. I glanced up and saw Rose’s gaze fixed upon me. Her brother Walter had not come, but their ward, Charlotte, danced in the arms of my brother Edmund. The servant left and Simon picked up the malevolent thought he’d left off with.

“Your brother Thomas, all know, married a whore who makes her way round the realm like a coin. I’ve no intention of doing that, nor risking my son’s bloodline with a woman who has an easy shift. Think on this tonight. I shall visit your apartment tomorrow afore the evening meal and you can tell me if these letters, and the sentiments within them, are from long ago or mayhap are still fresh in hand and heart. I bid you a good evening, my lady.”

He stood up and took his leave, and as he did, I noticed that others remarked of it. ’Twas common knowledge that we were to be married and his rude dismissal would be noted.

I made my apologies and went back to my room. I did not share my concerns with Edithe as it would only vex her further.

After she helped me to bed I blew out the candle and lay there under the grimace of a cold January moon. I would not sleep all night, and that reminded me of Simon and his physic draughts, ones certain to keep the baron from being intimate with me and therefore from producing an heir to undo Simon. Of feeble-minded Meredith, pregnant more likely by Simon or one of his boon companions than by a stable boy. Of Simon’s threat to Roger. Was this a man I could trust with my life or the lives of my future children?

And yet, I had few choices. Edmund would be livid if this did not come to pass. Indeed, he’d like as not been plotting this very outcome with Simon from the beginning. I was not exactly the village old maid but even Anthony, who was older, had been partnered with a much younger and supposedly more fertile bride. My niece was years younger than I and newly wed. And I’d been well trained to understand living with a tyrant.

Anne would not turn me out, this I knew. Perhaps she could help find me a husband.

And strangely, the option I had so long ago dismissed out of hand grew more welcome. Mayhap I could serve You in an abbey, eventually.

I allowed myself to sleep, then, to rest my bones for the winter storm I’d face on the morrow. One thing still troubled me. What benefit did this hold for Rose, and why had she approached Simon?