To Die For: A Novel of Anne Boleyn

TWO

Year of Our Lord 1520

Allington Castle, Kent, England

Two years had passed since my brother Thomas and Will had been sent to Cambridge to master rhetoric and Anne back to France to master the ways of their court.

But some things never change.

It began as it always did, Thomas begging me to do something against my better judgment, me wavering between my love for him and my misgivings toward the deed itself.

“Please, Meg.” He dipped to bended knee, the incongruity of which made me laugh out loud. “I’ll not ask you for anything else!”

Once again his charm pushed me toward an action I did not really want to take, though I teasingly waved him away like an errant bee.

“Just hand it to her privately. I cannot do so without drawing attention.” He held out the parchment scroll. I took it in my hand and turned it over. Mistress Anne was carefully inked along the other side in his long, poetic hand and it was sealed with wax.

“What about her?” I asked, glancing toward our new marble terrace where his future wife held court. My father had arranged for Thomas to marry Baron Cobham’s daughter, who, at twenty-one, was two years older than I. It was a great move forward for our family but would shackle Thomas to a woman he loathed. He’d already caught her in the arms of another man, and yet here she was, ready to celebrate Mary Boleyn’s hasty wedding with us as if she were already family. No matter. She pushed us Wyatts forward and that’s all that counted where my father was concerned.

“She’s mine in name only,” Thomas replied.

I nodded a grim agreement.

“I need my friends to keep my spirits up.” He clasped my hands, smiling winsomely. Anne, polished to high shine during her years at the French court, had come home to celebrate her sister safely wed to Sir William Carey, a rich and obedient privy companion of King Henry.

“If you simply wanted to be the kind of friend to Anne that she is to me, I’d have had no qualms. But I know better.”

“See, she likes me!”

“Her father has plans for her, Thomas, and now that her sister, Mary, has disgraced herself at the French court he’s pinned all of his hopes on Anne. He’s not likely to let her marry—nor dally—with the likes of you.”

“It’s only an innocent poem, Meg,” he said, “I promise.” He looked back over his shoulder at the grating sound of his future wife’s laugh. “And besides, mayhap we can arrange a trade of sorts.”

I spun around. “What do you mean?”

“You deliver a note from me to a girl I cannot have and I’ll deliver a note to you from a man you cannot have.”

“You have a note to me from Will?”

He nodded.

“Then what do you mean, ‘a man I cannot have’?” I asked. My father would be thrilled if something could be arranged with Earl Ogilvy. He’d pay a huge dowry if need be.

“Oh, nothing.” Thomas turned quiet.

“All right,” I begrudgingly agreed, tucking Thomas’s letter away. He pulled me close and danced a little jig right there in the ripe stable and I grinned along with him. Keep his spirits up indeed.

“You’re my dearest sister, Meg.” He kissed my cheek lightly. “The most affectionate. The kindest heart. Truly beautiful.” And he meant it. For a woman who is often a highborn companion rather than the center of the swirl, the setting rather than the stone, this compliment was not held lightly. He knew it and used it to his advantage.

Our father called to us from the edge of his expensive new portico and we went to join him and our guests in the drawing room.

Mistress Cobham sat in a corner, demurely playing the virginals, looking for all the world like an angelic being, though, I thought to myself, an angel who dwelled in which realm I could not say. Her brother George, the future Baron Cobham, sat nearby and drank spirits. Where he got them I knew not, as most houses did not keep them. As the fathers withdrew from the room young Sir George patted the seat next to him proprietarily.

“Have a seat, Mistress Wyatt.” He tried to keep his voice inviting but it sounded of a man speaking to his dogs. Nonetheless, trained well, I did as I was told.

“I hear you’ve been at court with your sister, Alice.”

“Yes, though I can hardly call it at court. I stayed at her manor house in the city and attended to her children whilst she attended to the queen. Nevertheless, we did get to spend some days together and for that I am grateful.”

“Did you like court?”

“I did,” I said. “I much prefer it to…. country life. Which one might equate with a slow death.”

He snorted. “I will agree with you there. Country life holds impossible challenges, the largest of which is the management of the animals, and by that, I do not mean the beasts of the field. I mean the hands hired to tend them but who rather spend their days drinking ale at my expense. If they poorly manage the field and the barns I have no recourse but to reprimand them. For if they cannot be held to account for that which is given them to steward, why, then, who is to blame?”

Used to reasoning with my brother Thomas and with Will, I answered with the first thing that came to mind. “The same might be said of those who steward the field hands themselves, is that not so?”

He slowly drained his glass of its amber liquid and quietly set it down. “Good day, Mistress Wyatt,” he said, and then he stood, curtly bowed, and left the room. I remained seated till his sister finished her ethereal song.

I didn’t have to wait long to have the echo from my observation return to me in full force. My father called me into his library shortly after a stiff and uneasy dinner with our guests. Edmund was already there, smirking in the background. Thomas idled by the window out of habit, well out of arm’s reach of my father.

I knew Father would not scar my face days before the celebration of Mary Boleyn’s wedding because the king was rumored to be coming. It’s not that hitting your child, or your wife, was unacceptable. It was only unacceptable to leave marks to prove that it had happened because it would cause discomfort to those who must look upon them.

“My Lord Cobham tells me that you have many opinions on matters which concern you not at all and are not shy about sharing them with your betters.”

“Father, I…. I was trying to have a conversation with him. That’s all.”

“Lord Cobham took it as a rebuke, and, as such, says he has no desire to marry a woman who may scold him for the rest of his years.”

I sat down in the chair next to me afore my knees buckled. “I, marry Lord Cobham?”

“Not any longer,” my father said, his rage barely contained, the skin on his face taut and red like an infected boil.

“Perhaps a scold deserves a scold’s punishment,” Edmund offered. I turned around and glared at him, not bothering to conceal the hatred in my eyes. A woman accused of being a scold would be tied to a clucking chair and publicly dunked in a nearby river, soaking her in humiliation to the general amusement of all who came to watch.

My father barked out a laugh. “Mayhap I should. But….” He came near my chair and towered over me. “You will marry whom I choose. You will be kind and quiet and submissive to the next man I bring to you. You will win him with your gentleness and you will prove your good breeding.”

“And if not?” I dared whisper.

“Then you will get you, immediately, to the furthest abbey I can find. And not an abbey of high standing, either, for I’ll not pay a dowry to the Lord when I’ve already paid your keep these many years. You’ll work out your short years in poverty and dirt so far away that it won’t matter what you say to whom. Do you understand?”

I nodded. He wouldn’t tie me to a clucking chair for the shame it would bring upon him, but he would keep his word and send me to a vermin-ridden abbey, that much I knew. “Yes, sir,” I said demurely, and I meant it this time. I was dismissed, and on my way back to my room I prayed, fervently, that I might speak to Will at Hever Castle and that his father would be in attendance to speak with mine.

The next day, as there were no stable boys in sight, my brother Thomas held my stirrup for me as I got on. Then he held the brood mare for our manservant so he could accompany me. No lady should travel alone, no matter how light the initial path, nor how dark it later grew.

“I expect my letter when I return home,” I said. “Or I’ll tell your intended about this innocent poem.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Thomas looked at me, shocked, and then relaxed when he saw my smile.

“Don’t test me,” I teased. Then I pressed my heels into my mount and we headed toward Hever Castle.

When I arrived, the castle was already in an uproar. They’d just been told to expect the king at the next day’s celebration and Sir Thomas, Anne’s father, was unsure if the entertainment, the wine, or the food was of high enough quality. Lady Boleyn supervised the servants, one of whom let me in. I went upstairs to the girls’ annex and found Anne with her hands on Mary’s shoulders as Mary wept. Anne caught my eye in the mirror to let me know she’d be with me shortly and I withdrew to her chamber to wait.

Momentarily, she joined me. “Meg! I’m so glad to see you.”

“Is Mary all right?” I asked.

She nodded. “You know Mary—always emotional, and on this day, when anyone would be emotional, she’s more like overwrought. She didn’t want to marry Sir William, though he’s a nice enough man. She’d fallen in love with a man in France, at Francis’s court, and won’t put him out of her mind. She just asked me how he fared. I told her he was to be married.”

“Oh dear,” I said, my heart tender for Mary. “It’s an awful thing to face a lifetime of being married to a man you don’t want. But she can’t chase a man she can’t have,” I pointed out. “It could be worse. At least Carey is handsome.” I paused. “Is Will coming this night?”

Anne grinned. “Yes, I’ve not heard otherwise. I’m glad for you.” She reached out, took my hand, and squeezed it as old friends do. But there was something more substantive, raised higher, a certain je ne sais quoi about her. She seemed sophisticated, and, well, French.

“I’d best get back to assisting Mary,” she said. “We’ll have a full week to talk and enjoy one another afore I must return to France to serve the good Queen Claude.”

I hugged her quickly and pulled away. “I’m eager to hear all of your news.”

“And there is news…,” she added tantalizingly.

“There’s always news with you,” I said, grinning. “Oh—I almost forgot. From Thomas.” I pulled the scroll out of the sleeve I’d used to smuggle it in.

“Oh, Meg, he’s still sending poems.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve told him he must let you go.”

“And so he must. He’s a dear friend to me…. but naught else.”

“I know,” I said. “Dance with him once at Mary’s wedding feast and then tell him he must move on.”

I took my leave and rode back home quickly with my manservant to beat the darkness. Once home I handed my wraps to my maid, Edithe, and then went upstairs to check on my mother.

Her chamber was darkened, as it almost always was these days. I’d spent a good amount of time with my sister, Alice, in the past year or two, staying at her household for months at a time and then returning to Allington to help my mother manage the household and her affairs, which I didn’t mind at all, for her sake. But she’d purposefully placed more and more of the daily concerns into the hands of her trusted lady servant, who had been with my mother since she was a child.

I didn’t know if it was her pain or her mood that made her desire the darkness. “Shall I open your tapestries a bit to let in the last light of the day, my lady?” I asked softly as I came into the room. She nodded weakly and I pulled them back. The effort released dust, and the motes floated to the ground in a gentle downward drift, symbolic of my mother’s state of being. It was clear she was not going to make it to dine this evening.

“Tomorrow is Mary Boleyn’s wedding celebration.” The ceremony itself had been some months past but Sir Thomas wanted to show off his fine gardens while they were in bloom. I sat on the edge of her bed and stroked the hair by her temple. I waved to her lady servant, dismissing her to rest for a time. “And the king is coming!”

“I fear I shall not be able to attend,” my mother answered. “This day I am too weak to sit aright in bed, much less dress to be seen.”

I tried not to show my alarm. My sister was in London, her ninth baby due to arrive any day. Thomas would escort his intended, and if my mother didn’t go, my father wouldn’t, either.

Which would leave me at home with the loathsome Edmund, who would amuse himself, I was sure, by lowering his boot on live insects to hear them crunch and then see them squirm and die.

“Are you certain?” I looked into her face, which, over the past months, had gone from mothlike white to a slowly hardening mask of wax gray.

“I am certain,” she said. “But I will ask your father if he will allow Thomas and his wife to escort you to the wedding. I know you want to see your friends.” She reached out and took my hand in hers; it was papery and dry, the skin pulling into folds that did not recover to smoothness. “I have a gift for you, Meg. Call Flora.”

I kissed her hand before letting go of it and then rang the bell to indicate that we required a servant. When her servant came my mother sent her for the seamstress, who soon returned with a large dress box.

“Bring it here,” my mother whispered, and then indicated for me to lift the lid. I did, and pulled out the most amazing gown of russet silk, the perfect color to set off my hair and eyes. It was trimmed in cord that I knew to be copper but glinted dangerously close to the gold only allowed to royalty. The kirtle underneath was ivory, as were the ruffs. It was cut in a French style but not a copy of one of Anne’s.

“Oh, Madam!” I said. “This is too beautiful for me, for a simple country celebration. Thank you, thank you.” I reached forward and hugged her, her skeletal frame somewhat cushioned by the layers of bedclothes.

“’Tis no simple country affair when the king will attend,” my mother replied, smiling. The first real joy I’d seen in her eyes for quite some time then dimmed. “I fear I shall not be here to see you wed and have that dress made.” She coughed and I saw the brown phlegm though she tried to quickly fold the kerchief in half to hide it.

“Father wants me to marry soon.”

“It will take time to arrange, but he will find someone highly placed and who owns vast properties,” my mother said. “And who knows? Your husband may end up being kind.”

“But Father is not!” I said, keeping a care not to let my voice rise too much but not tempering my frustration, either. “He beats me senseless and then, when I’m of some profit use to him, he marries me off to the highest bidder.”

My mother flinched at that most impolite word, “profit.” “Do you know why your father suffers so?”

We never discussed my father—any of us. “I’m unsure.”

“As a young man, your father joined in a revolt against that pretender and murderer King Richard. They captured your father and put him in the Tower and tortured him, night and day, for two years. When Henry Tudor, father of our good king, came to the throne, he released your father and rewarded him with lands and titles for his loyalty. But the demons beat into your father never left.”

I said nothing. I was sorry for his torture but failed to see how that left him free to beat me. If it were me, I’d have shied away from torture for having suffered it. Just then I caught the sound of my brother Edmund idling in the hallway, waiting to wish our rarely awake mother, whom he worshipped, a good eve.

It occurred to me that Edmund, like my father, responded to his torment by tormenting others. Only whereas my father’s fits of anger seemed like an ill-restrained impulse, Edmund’s seemed a well-rehearsed pleasure.

My mother’s feeble grasp on my wrist grew weaker. “Mayhap your father wants to marry you quickly for your own good.”

“Mayhap by marrying I advance the Wyatt name.”

My mother nodded. Pain had not clouded her vision. “It would be best for you to remain often with Alice until the time that you are married.”

In other words, after her death, I should get away from my father. I kissed her cheek and a short time later she fell back into the laudanum of sleep. I left, taking my prized dress box back to my own chamber and thankful not to have met Edmund still skulking in some dark corner.

My servant, Edithe, made a show of smoothing my bed over and over, and just as I was about to remark on her odd behavior I saw the scroll. “Thank you, that will be all,” I said softly, and she grinned at me as she left.

Meg was tenderly etched along the side, above the smooth wax that I knew had been sealed by Will. I slid my finger underneath, relishing the knowledge that his finger had touched this very same paper.