Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Narcissistic King
August 1536, the Palace of Whitehall, the city of London, England
The stillness in the palace was so deep that the dropping of a shawl would be heard. Queen Anne Boleyn sauntered down a hallway illuminated by flickering torches which hung over the walls. The guards bowed to her as she passed by them, befuddlement written over their features, as it was unusual to see the Queen of England without her ladies-in-waiting at such a late hour. Outside, the summer night was warm, and a full moon silvered the deep green foliage in the gardens.
A bit out of breath, Anne picked up her pace. She urgently had to discuss with her husband the future betrothal of their daughter, Elizabeth, to Prince Charles de Valois, Duke d’Orléans. Two years ago, King François I of France had rejected the girl as a match for his youngest son, but now he was ready to reconsider. The spouses had to plan everything beforehand, including their speech for the upcoming meeting in Calais and the possible overtures of friendship.
She ambled through the corridors with an air of remarkable confidence about her, holding her head high, her expression haughty, her posture majestic. I hope Henry is alone, without one of his mistresses, she mused. I hope against any hope. He has as many lovers as there have been full moons since his accession. The king regularly took to bed new women even after the birth of their beloved son – William Tudor, Prince of Wales.
The queen had been four months along in her pregnancy when she had seen Henry’s adulterous kiss with Jane Seymour sitting in his lap. As a result, the extreme shock she had experienced had almost resulted in a miscarriage. To keep the child alive and safe, she had been put on constant bed rest. Against all odds, Anne had carried the baby to full term and birthed a healthy prince two months ago.
Oh, how happy she and Henry had been in the days they had spent in her quarters together with infant William. At first, she had expected that her husband would love her more than ever, that his heart would be fully hers. What a fool she had been! Her happiness in her marriage to Henry, in its essence, was a brief experience of euphoria which briskly faded away. When one eats a delicious cake, they get a short-lived feeling of pleasure spreading through their body – but it is a fleeting one, nonetheless. Like contentment with Henry... just a simple illusion…
Doctor Butts had strictly prohibited Queen Anne from performing her conjugal duties for at least six months after the prince’s birth. King Henry had accepted it, knowing that she would have risked her life if she had quickly conceived again. The ruler rejoiced that he could freely exercise his right to take a mistress because Anne could not have intimacy with him.
“That is why he is now with her,” whispered the queen to herself, nearing his apartments.
The sweet Jane had become the ruler’s mistress after playing with his lust for months. Her obvious lies were part of her game: she had once told him that her maidenhood were more precious to her than anything else, but later, she changed her tune to cater to Henry’s wishes. Thomas and Edward Seymour induced Jane to surrender her virtue to the king after she had lost the chance to be queen, for they could still elevate their family in another way.
Despite being upset, Anne no longer voiced her protestations against his liaisons. Henry had been tiring of her before their son’s birth, and it had been possible that she would have been not only discarded but perhaps executed on false charges. If his legendary Tudor temper was in full swing, the monarch might plunge into the very blackness which follows the extinction of the last spark of humanity in the soul of man, and these days, the ruler was often unrecognizable. Therefore, Anne had altered her behavior after coming close to losing her head.
The queen stopped near the heavy oak door to the royal quarters. Three guards stared at her in startlement, swithering as to how to act. They bowed to Anne but didn’t let her in.
Her brow arched, Anne smiled at the realization that now Henry must be with the Seymour wench. At this moment, she hated him with every fiber of her being, her antagonism towards him a living, breathing entity that manifested itself in her soul. Imagining a pool of red, she itched to barge into the chamber, grab a sword, and kill the lovers in the royal bed.
“Move aside,” commanded the queen, rage quivering in her voice.
The queen’s countenance was so incensed that the men obeyed, bowing to her once more. Everyone knew that Anne Boleyn was a dangerous and cunning woman, who could prevail upon any of her adversaries by means of her crafty wiles, sharp intelligence, and supreme station. If the outcome didn’t content her, her foe was doomed to become an inmate of hell on earth. Fearing an outburst of anger on her part, the guards pushed the door open.
Opening the door with trembling hands, the queen entered and crossed the chamber, her eyes searching for Henry. Candles in several tall silver Italian candelabra, placed around the room, sputtered brightly, casting an eerie, pale yellow glow on the richly furnished interior. Torches in brackets high up on one of the walls threw dancing shadows amongst the beams. In a distant alcove, she spotted two bodies on a large, canopied, mahogany bed covered in green satin tapestries. Her heart, fractured by her husband’s betrayals, nearly collapsed in her chest at the thought that Henry and Jane had fallen asleep after their lovemaking.
Entwined like a tree’s branches after a storm. Anne peered at her unfaithful husband and his harlot. I should be in this bed with Henry! What is he doing this to me? Why cannot he just love only me? Scrubbing tears away from her cheeks, she pulled herself together.
It was beyond her comprehension what Henry found in the undereducated country mouse, though not as naïve as the whore pretended to be. In contrast to Jane, Anne was an epitome of grace, charm, elegance, wit, and intelligence; she was impeccably educated and well learned in the arts. Anne had once reckoned that Henry was attracted to both intelligence and beauty in women, but at present, she believed that he was in the perpetual quest for conquests.
Anne paused in the middle and again beheld her husband’s debauchery. Bile rose in her throat, and she clamped down the urge to vomit. She was not looking at the man who had torn the kingdom apart and fought against the pope, Catherine of Aragon, and the whole world to wed her. He no longer was the person who had pledged to love Anne forever and promised that they children would preside over empires. The old Henry disappeared in the haze of Lethe.
§§§
In a handful of heartbeats, a groan erupted from the monarch. Silk sheets rustled as two bodies parted, and the king climbed out of bed. “Anne,” he spelled out in a voice laced with astonishment.
Anne pivoted to face him, and the alluring blackness of her gaze encountered the piercing amazement of Henry’s small aquamarine eyes. “Husband, I have caught you red-handed.”
A look of exasperation flashed across the handsome countenance of the English ruler like a bolt of lightning. Broad and somewhat chiseled, his features were peculiarly complemented by a gorgeous mane of thick, short, red-gold hair, which Anne jestingly compared to huge, leaping tongues of yellow and orange flames, consuming all before them. Nothing could be more lordly than his stature and deportment, the grandeur of which accentuated his regal bearing. The imperial air of magnificence about Henry made him more than just a majestic ruler.
In her life, many men confessed to loving Anne. She loved only one: King Henry VIII of England. Years ago, her ambitious father and her Howard relatives forced her to set herself in the king’s way after Henry Tudor had set aside her elder sister, Mary. Anne had consented to ingratiate herself into the king’s favor under her family’s pressure, having no intention to be his strumpet regardless of their demands. In the early spring of their courtship, the monarch had enamored her with beautiful romantic letters, sumptuous gifts, and vows of everlasting love for and loyalty to her. It had taken Anne less than a year to fall head over heels in love with Henry, and his marriage proposal to her had deepened and intensified her feelings for him.
Anne couldn’t say with absolute certainty what she felt for her husband at present. For ten years, she had loved Henry so deeply, possessively, and insanely, so wholeheartedly and with such dedication. The autumn of their romance ousted the summer of their happiness; yet, at this moment, Anne couldn’t look away and break the spell that encircled her as the seconds passed. His robe of black velvet, wrought with gold, hugged his body in sinful ways, stressing his rather burly physique, tall and decidedly male. Henry was blessed with charm aplenty and looked like a man who enjoyed the fullness of life, just tonight not with his wife.
Her moral outrage over his affair with Jane was instantly suspended, as she was assailed by a chilling shot of his fury. In order not to wake Jane, Henry stomped to his wife, grabbed her wrist, pulled her towards the door, and ushered her into the adjoining antechamber. Closing the door behind them quietly, he let go of her, and she backed away a few steps.
The King of England paced the floor like a caged gladiator. “Why are you here, Anne?”
Catching a glimpse of the fierceness in his countenance, Anne strove to deflate the tension. “A successful marriage requires falling in love with the same person quite many times. Threads, hundreds of tiny threads, hold husband and wife together. On this account, I have come to you.”
Henry huffed, “I’m your king! If I haven’t visited you tonight, then I’m busy.”
Where was his professed undying love for her? Did Henry really dislike her so much? For several years, she had endeavored to be a good wife to him, abiding by the rules he had set for her during their courtship and later. After Elizabeth’s birth, he had plunged in a grief as eccentric as was the felicity from his fornication activities. When she had been a fading star in the courtly firmament, Anne had saved the Boleyns and herself by giving Henry a male heir.
Contrary to her expectations, the tension was mounting. If the worst comes to the worst, his response goaded her into launching an acerbic attack on him. “Occasionally, my sense of humor turns mordant. Tell me, my dearest husband, have you been busy picking berries of love with the virtuous Lady Jane? Was it a vigorous exercise?”
The ruler was delighted that the queen had forcefully curbed her jealousy after all his warnings. In the past months, he spent night after night with Jane who he fancied himself in love with. If Anne had failed to give him a son, he would have annulled their marriage. Anne fulfilled her promise, and now Henry was stuck with her for the rest of her or his life. But he would not be faithful to his wife, part of him regretting that he could not wed Jane.
Stopping beside a couch by the fireplace, Henry ground out, “Madame, you are my consort. I’m the King of England, and it is my right to take as many mistresses as I want.”
His wife glowered at him contemptuously. “I’m perfectly aware who you are. But you have forgotten about your marital duties.”
Henry glared at Anne, her cheeks flushed red with anger. His loins throbbed, for she was a beautiful creature who enthralled him like an ancient goddess of war and beauty. At the sight of those beguiling dark eyes, hooks to her soul, and that mysterious smile of hers, his heart fluttered with excitement, and every nerve in his body jangled with the need for her. His fiery wife looked so seductive in her elegant robe of burgundy silk, trimmed with diamonds and rubies. Henry would have taken Anne right now, if not for Doctor Butts’ interdiction.
A moment of weakness had elapsed, and the ruler again radiated fury. “I shall not listen to your preaching me about my transgressions. I would better dispatch you from this room.”
She countered, “Henry, why are you treating me as though I was not the woman who you chose to be your wife and queen long ago? Why are all your promises worthless?”
His features froze, and his eyes as hard as granite, he snapped, “Anne, I elevated you to my queen from commoners. I fought for us, and we finally married. What else do you need?”
“Do you really care for me?” she breathed, masking her hurt with a mocking smile.
His expression softened a notch. “How can you doubt this?”
Drawn by something stronger than herself, Anne trudged towards him. Her hand reached out and caressed the side of his face, lingering, moving irresistibly towards his adulterous lips. As if guided by some inner knowledge, she then shrank away from him.
The queen settled herself in a high-back walnut chair, putting her elbows on the armrests decorated with lion heads. Some of her ire fading, she recalled the erstwhile time when he had been madly in love with her. “Do you still feel passion for me?”
As if suddenly depleted of all his strength, Henry collapsed into a matching chair next to her. He leaned forward and placed his hands upon her shoulders. “I love you, sweetheart.”
His erstwhile unstinting attraction to Anne resurfaced like a phoenix reborn from ashes. My exotic wife is worthy of being worshipped like Venus. She is rarely vulnerable, especially not with me. When she is not an intemperate and rebellious she-devil, Anne is so appealing. Henry liked Jane who was Anne’s opposite: she was a soothing balm to Anne’s fire. He admitted to himself that he missed his wife’s fire that burned so hot it threatened to incinerate him.
His relationship with Anne was as complex as the few books in Eastern languages from his library which he would never be able to read. The inner voice admonished Henry to remember that Anne Boleyn possessed that spell of brilliant intelligence, and those female wiles, and that consummate skill in swaying the minds of powerful men, which centuries ago had enabled Cleopatra to kindle the love of Julius Caesar and to hold the heart of Marcus Antonius.
With a delicate flick of her wrist, she gestured towards the door that led to his bedroom. “That pale wench is there! If you love me, then why do you love others? So many others…” Her voice fell to the most doleful tune. “Do you not see that it breaks my heart?”
The king issued a low growl. “All the women in my kingdom rightfully belong to me.”
“No! They are not your property! You cannot play with their lives!”
He waggled his finger at her. “Such senseless melodramatics! That is enough out of you, Anne. I will not tolerate when my subjects question my actions and decisions.”
The queen shuddered like a leaf in the wind. He was not the same man who had looked at her with devotion moments ago. The man she saw now was a hedonistic, egotistical beast who had been corrupted by his absolute might. The worst was that she had assisted the king in obtaining unlimited power that destroyed the gentle, considerate person he had once been.
She declared, “I used to trust you and admire your honor, integrity, and sincerity. But now you are not the man I once loved. You don’t love me, Henry – you love only yourself.”
At these blatant accusations, he snarled, “Be careful, darling. I have kept you as my wife only because you birthed William. This time, I will forgive you, but I will not be lenient again.”
“And what if I cross a line again?” challenged Anne.
A livid Henry got out, “My councilors shall always do what I wish and command.” A nasty smile flittered across his visage. “You might land in trouble, my own sweetheart.”
She foolhardily riposted, “And what can you do to me?”
Jumping from his seat, the king roughly hoisted Anne to her feet. He pushed her back and pinned her against the wall, then wrapped his hand around her throat and began squeezing. As she cried out in pain, his grip loosened marginally. The dark eyes glared into the aquamarine ones ferociously, torrents of unbridled rage mingled with longing consuming both of them. They froze in a peculiarly unroyal stance – an aggressive one conveying warped sensuality. Ten years ago, he had held her in the same fashion, mistaking George Boleyn for her beau.
“Fear not for your life, Anne. You will not be imprisoned unless you betray your marital vows or commit treason against the Crown and me.”
She stood still, staring in two aquamarine pools where fury rippled. Her consciousness meandered to the days when Henry had courted her: she had been overwhelmed with passion for him while looking into his eyes. Her feelings turned topsy-turvy, and her life upended. Where is the love I once felt for Henry? Now there is a blend of rage and disgust in my heart.
“I shall never betray Your Majesty,” assured Anne in a voice layered with both sincerity and umbrage. Her features contorting in torment, her heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, she asserted, “Such a vile thought would never have popped into my head. I have known carnally only you, Henry. You must remember that you took my maidenhood in the woods.”
At this, the monarch let out a reminiscent smile. On the day of Cardinal Woolsey’s death, Anne and Henry together had gone to the woods for a ride. Seized by a frenzied yearning for her, he had stripped her of her garments, pinned her against the trunk of a tree, and unlaced his breeches. At the time, they had both wanted each other more than their next breath, so he had taken her wildly for the first time after she had denied him for years. Anne had compelled him to pull out before he could have spilled himself into her to not risk pregnancy.
“I know, Anne.” Henry released her and returned to his seat.
Chilled to the deepest recesses of her essence, the Queen of England concealed her inner turmoil behind the neutral façade. How different was the reality to the lie which Henry had believed! She regretted her passing affair with Sir Thomas Wyatt which had ended before she caught the king’s eye. As it could not be undone, she had to keep the secret until her dying day. God forbid her husband would ever discover the truth. I have never been unfaithful to Henry, for my relationship with Thomas was over before Henry began pursuing me. Truth be told, I feel no remorse for deceiving Henry on the back of his betrayals of me with other women.
She settled in the chair she had occupied before. “Then, why are you saying such things?”
His lips stretching into a crooked grin, the ruler said brusquely, “I need a dignified and obedient queen, Anne. Since William’s birth, you have behaved exactly in this way, and I expect you to continue doing so.” He chuckled. “Know your place, my love.”
She masqueraded herself as an acquiescent wife. “Very well. I shall relish in the freedom you allow me to have, my lord husband. I thank you for being magnanimous to me.”
Henry beheld his wife, aware of his blood rising hot and thick in his loins. Her body was only inches from his, and he was conscious of the feminine curves beneath her robe. Regardless of their squabbles, Henry would always eventually go in search of the ambrosial oblivion in his wife’s nimble arms. It was the strong sense of possessiveness, the uncanny temptation intertwined with desire for her that disturbed him. Anne… Always Anne… She has bewitched me… He fought off the inclination to submerge himself into her wilderness – but he could not.
He provided her with crumbs from the master’s table. “After giving me William, you have carte blanche in how to live your routine life. Just don’t meddle in affairs of state and my life.”
Anne dropped her gaze. “I got it. You are most generous, sire.”
“We have had a dinner together. Why did you come to me?”
She divulged, “I wanted to talk about our visit to France.”
“Tomorrow.” He itched to feel the warmth of his lover’s body once more.
The queen dipped her head. “I shall not venture to demur.”
The king expected tears, pleas, and protestations, any rush of emotion – but not this… not calmness. Puzzled, he instructed, “Go to your quarters and get some sleep.”
“With your permission, Your Majesty.” She stood up, curtsied, and quitted the chamber.
§§§
A crestfallen Anne halted in the hallway to brush a tear from her cheek. Then she darted through the corridors so fast that she was out of breath by the time she reached her apartments. She stormed inside like a blast of wind, and, oblivious to the murmurings of her worried ladies-in-waiting, she scurried into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
Wobbling slightly, she wished that Henry’s strong arms would enfold her waist. But he would not come – he would not break the monotony of his idleness and vulgar dissipation for her sake. A tempest of sobs assailed her, stealing every last shred of dignity she had left, and she fell in a heap in the center of the room. Tears of helplessness and heartache flooded her eyes.
“Why, Henry?” bemoaned the queen. “Why? Why? Why?”
The tangle of her emotions was something akin to what the bereaved mother feels when the tiny fingers of her baby seem to lie warm on her bosom, and yet are marble to her lips as she bends over the silent bed. Her whole being tinctured in the morbid hues of shattered dreams, her heart writhed in the throes of excruciating agony. Anne Boleyn and her way of her life metamorphosed into something akin to the dry skin of a desert, where all sorts of pleasures and activities, which she had once taken for granted, were simply written off. Lost in Minotaur’s elaborate maze, the queen wandered aimlessly along the twisting lanes, and the hero Theseus would not come to rescue her.
Calm down, Anne ordered herself. I’m a Boleyn, not a whimpering timorous creature! I shall not weep because Henry is hell-bent on destroying our marriage, he is not worth it. Boleyns always win – eventually. She had her baby boy – the golden prince who would rule England after her husband as King William III of England. She also had her Elizabeth, whose gender was such a disappointment to the king, although this girl was the jewel of her world. Even without her spouse, she would never be alone – she had her offspring.
With a gargantuan effort, the queen dashed the telltale signs of despair away. Mustering her strength, she hoisted herself from the floor and shuffled towards a huge walnut bed draped in heavily embroidered white silk covers. She reclined on the bed against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, her tears drying. Before long, her breathing became steady, and her lids grew heavy.
“For my children,” words tumbled from her mouth, and Anne repeated them several times like a mantra. Despite being angry at Henry for his amorous treachery and at herself for her own foibles, she fathomed that she would have to feign cheerfulness while overflowing with anguish. She would abide by the king’s rules for the sake of her children – Elizabeth and William.
December 1536, Greenwich Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England
The visit of King Henry and Queen Anne to Calais for negotiations with King François was successful. Two years ago, the French monarch had refused to acknowledge Henry’s union with Anne as legal and valid, but everything changed after Catherine of Aragon’s passing. At present, Prince William and Princess Elizabeth Tudor were both legitimate children and heirs to the English throne, while the Lady Mary Tudor was viewed as the king’s bastard.
During their meeting in Calais in October 1532, François had approved of Anne’s marriage to Henry. Nevertheless, as a Catholic ruler, he had later withdrawn his support under the pope’s pressure. After the executions of Bishop John Fisher and Thomas More, the awful cost of the religious reform in England had shocked him. François had made unpleasant comments about Henry and Anne: he had said that they had pledged to annihilate and drive out from the land subject to their jurisdiction notable Catholics denounced by the heretical Church of England. This condemnation earned for France a break in the seemingly endless Italian wars.
As Henry’s bigamy remained in the past, King François finally acknowledged Anne Boleyn as queen and congratulated the English couple on Prince William’s birth. He treated Henry and Anne as friends: he disliked his English counterpart, but he was genuinely fond of Anne who had been the finest ornament to his court throughout her years in France. François’ warmth was partly attributed to his political ploy that was necessary to have his country allied with England against Spain. Henry and François had signed a betrothal agreement for their children.
After their return from France, the court settled at Greenwich Palace for Christmastide. The following weeks were a whirl of ceremonies, processions, feasts, pageants, hunts, and jousts, in which the king didn’t participate due to his ulcerated leg. The Tudor universe shimmered in the contrasting colors of pleasantries and courtly love, political issues and intrigues, exploits and perils. Bombarded by outpourings of devotion and loyalty, the king appointed new nobles on important positions and bestowed lands and manors upon some of his most trusted courtiers.
Customarily, the king and queen would seat in the ornately carved thrones under a canopy of cloth of gold embroidered with the Tudor escutcheon. Flashing each other smiles, they would converse about the Golden Age of enlightenment, prosperity, and peace, which, according to Henry, their reign embodied for England. Every day, the couple would assiduously maintain the pretense of happiness, although seldom, a brief look of disappointment would pass over Anne’s countenance as her husband lavished compliments upon Jane Seymour and other women.
Henry and his blonde strumpet frequently appeared in public together. Anne endured the ignominy with admirable fortitude, keeping her countenance stony and her smile chilly. The king was so astounded by the changes in his wife that he wondered why she didn’t contend with his paramours for his attention. The truth was that the old Anne Boleyn was dead: the icy lassitude of her deportment reflected her fractured faith in her own husband and his love.
Like the sun at its zenith, the Boleyns and Howards were at the height of power at court, ambitious, overweening, and conniving. Thomas Boleyn was elevated to Duke of Wilshire, but Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, remained the most influential and richest man in the realm. Jane’s male relatives were granted plenty of manors and hunting lodges, and they also received seats at the Privy Council, although their influence was limited. Edward Seymour was created Viscount Beauchamp and Earl of Hertford; Thomas became Baron Seymour of Sudeley.
Thomas Cromwell ceased plotting against Anne: he could do nothing against the Prince of Wales’ mother, although the divergence of their views on the Dissolution of Monasteries was a thorn in the chief minister’s side. Certainly, Cromwell and Anne would never be allies again, like they had been when he had assisted Henry in the quest for an annulment of the king’s marriage to Catherine. Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, lost his previously immense influence over Henry, who still liked him but was distant and at times even cold to his boyhood friend. George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, was now the king’s favorite buddy in Suffolk’s stead.
Queen Anne was safe enough after her son’s birth. Her sworn foes such as Brandon and Cromwell treated her with outward respect befitting her highest station in the country. They waited for a suitable moment to act against her in case of her new fallout with the king. The Tudor court was a nest of hyenas, who marked a change of aspiration and spirit by a change of garb, switching sides depending on which faction had the upper hand. Anne treaded carefully around all these foxes, although she established alliances with some of her former enemies.
The English people had warmed up to Anne Boleyn. It had been a long, rocky road for her to secure the acceptance of her subjects who had once rejected and defamed her as a usurper and a harlot. Throughout the country, a festival of merriment took place that the monarch finally had a male heir, so it seemed that the threat of dynastic wars was negated. Folk no longer hated Anne, but they did not love her as much as they had felt for Catherine.
To banish her personal problems from her head, Queen Anne flung herself headlong into the courtly tumult. Always at the center of attention, she played the role of a model queen before throngs of courtiers, some of whom still dreamed of her fall and death. Ensconced in an aura of festive grandeur, Anne laughed and smiled, chattered and danced, as if climbing higher and higher towards a transcendent bliss. Ostensibly, she didn’t seem to care about the ruler’s infidelities, but inside her heart was bleeding like a never-healing wound.
Tonight, the king and queen presided over an opulent banquet in the great hall. Thomas and George Boleyn, Thomas Howard, Charles Brandon, and Thomas Cromwell stayed close to their liege lord. Imperial Ambassador Eustace Chapuys, as well as Jane Seymour and her large family, huddled together in the corner, awaiting the invitation to approach the royal couple.
King Henry smiled at his wife. “My own sweetheart, are enjoying the festivities?”
Queen Anne brushed a restless strand of dark hair from her face, and flashed a luminous smile. “Your Majesty, our court’s splendor is blinding like the dazzle of sunlight.” She sipped wine from a bejeweled goblet. “The only thing I don’t like is the countless number of groveling toadies and backstabbers who profess love for you while plotting behind your back.”
He took her hand in his and entwined their fingers in an intimate way. “Anne, they cannot harm you, even if someone still abhors you.” He slanted a glance at Charles Brandon and then looked back at Anne. “You are my wife and queen, and nothing will change it.”
“Thank you, Henry,” uttered Anne heedfully. Maybe he meant that he would not kill her, because she had given him a son. “I appreciate your reassurance.”
The ruler scanned the chamber, his gaze lingering on the Seymours who, he knew, loathed Anne. “The court is a place where nobles weave intrigues against the unfortunate souls who offended them and those who hinder their rise to power.” As he peered into his wife’s eyes, he supplemented, “You are safe, Anne, unless you scheme against me or commit adultery.”
An insulted Anne snapped, “I’m not out of my mind, sire.”
Although she was an excellent actress, Henry espied an evanescent flash of fear in her eyes before her confident spirits rallied. I still do have a lingering affection for Anne, he thought. I should not alienate her, but I must keep her in her place. She lacks a clear insight into the rules which govern her life. Striving his hardest to bend his astute, headstrong queen to his will, he tried threats, intimidations, promises, entreaties, and blustering, and intimidations worked the best. He was proud of his achievement: Anne became tolerant of his liaisons, although she wore a mask, and it exasperated him that, from time to time, she dared disparage Jane.
The king furrowed his red brows. “As my consort, you are the face of England and must be worthy of the greatest honor I bestowed upon you when I chose you to be my queen and the mother of my children. You cannot be disrespectful to me, especially in public.”
A dejected Anne didn’t flinch, her expression impassive. “For the love of God! These days, even the merest hint of my displeasure and opposition triggers your anger.”
An ominous silence stretched, as they beheld one another with implacable hostility.
After perusing Henry thoughtfully, Anne didn’t find his opulent habiliment pleasing to her eye. His doublet of red and black brocade, furred with ermine, glittered with diamonds, rubies, and a mass of both white and black pearls. Encircled by a black plume, his red velvet toque was ornamented by pearls. His girdle, studded with rubies, was like the whirling of a firebrand; his hose was of black silk. There were too many pearls to Anne’s liking, and she knew that he liked clothes with such decoration for the sole reason of pearls being Jane Seymour’s favorite gems.
Henry has crippled my soul, but he shall never break me, she mentally spoke to herself. She dragged a deep breath, assembling her inner strength like a captain taking command of his ship. His amours severely wounded her, but they didn’t obliterate the essence of her larger-than-life personality. Her marital life evolved into sheer calamity: like a plant without sufficient water, Anne existed in some desiccated state, but she could not thrive under her husband’s perverted care. However, no Boleyn would ever be reduced to being a withering flower.
Hardening herself against him, the queen pontificated, “A well-educated, cultured, and smart man such as the illustrious King Henry of England knows that matrimony is a complex of human relations – physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, practical, and so forth. Without some representation of each side, both husband and wife feel imperfect and often woebegone. To limit it to the expression of one particular aspect would be inadequate – a big, big mistake.”
His nod was no more than a quick jerk of his chin. “That is true and well said. However, a turbulent marriage exhausts a husband’s vitality. If his wife rebels against him and the society’s norms, he is awash in relief when he eventually tames her fiery nature.”
“Henry,” commenced Anne with a reverence that belied her real disposition. In actuality, she was close to going on the rampage and scratching his eyes out. “Any relationship is full of gorgeous new possibilities which demand realization on our both parts. If two people love each other, no problems can discourage them. Look at us: we feel in ourselves youthful vigor despite being older now that we shall not submit to a dark fate. We are the masters of our fates!”
The melancholy in her tone quite melted his soul, and the ruler caressed her cheek with trembling fingers. “In many medieval romances, sufferings are superseded by a power of great love and mercy, which sustain two lovers even in the midst of the terrible afflictions. Together, the knight and the dame of his heart grasp, unite, and deepen the genuine feelings in their lives and the untiring activity of their days.” His eyes shining with a sublime light, he continued after a pause, “Their love aspires them to yet greater heights than they have hitherto attained.”
A funereal laugh escaped the queen. Her hand fluttered indecisively in midair, but then dropped to her lap. “Love and death are oddly and remarkably connected. That is why a good deal of medieval tales and epics end in tragedy, blood, and tears. When death is at hand in a previously happy marriage, or its oncoming cannot be delayed, life, however brilliant externally, becomes tame and insipid for spouses. At times, feelings and promises might be nothing more than accessories or perhaps reminiscences of the past.”
Snarling at her, his aquamarine eyes gleaming like the steel of an enemy’s sword in the sunlight, Henry hissed, “A woman of sharp intelligence such as the famed Anne Boleyn must realize that the experience of history shows that no intellectual achievement of a wife can prevent a rapid deterioration of her marriage if she does not yield to her husband’s will. I’m your sovereign and husband, and, hence, your claims do not appeal to me as being both rational and imperative. I sympathize with you deeply, sweetheart, but don’t swerve from your loyalty to me. Duty is the sault of life, Anne, especially for queens.”
The Tudor temper flared like wildfire as the king swore something under his breath. Strands of Henry’s red hair, framing his face, are like tongues of his lurid temper, Anne remarked to herself. The conflagration of his vices was destroying the queen's life: her past, present, and future, as well as her memories of their romance, turning her story with Henry to ash. Tears sprang up behind her eyes, but she refused to let them free.
“Justice to wives!” exclaimed Anne deprecatingly. “If you love me, Henry, you will treat me not as a breeding cow and your prisoner in wifehood, but as a human being. It is your duty to me, for kings have not only rights but also duties.”
The King of England lifted his hand to silence her lest she intended to resume her tirade. “Anne, you must memorize what I will say by heart. Talk to me about our children, and I shall listen gladly. Discuss with me the duties of a queen, and I shall ensure that you comply with all the rules set by law and tradition. But don’t you dare point out my faults, follies, and mistakes, or I shall begin to think that you have ceased to be a suitable consort to me.”
The sword of his hedonism and cruelty had just slain his wife. “You swore you would never stop loving me, and that London would have to melt into the Thames first.”
“Indeed, these are my words.” He swept an errant tear away with his thumb – she hadn’t realized she was crying. He then leaned to her and quibbled, “Duty can well unite sadness and elation, love and death. I still do love you in my own manner, my own sweetheart. And I like your neck too much to let the final moments of love and death in your life coincide.”
Viciousness is staring at me with Henry’s eyes, lamented Anne, her gaze locked with her husband’s in the combat of wills. This man has no conscience! How dare he treat me worse than my predecessor? He is a king, but I’m his queen! All at once, the battering her spirit had endured at the hands of her iron-hearted spouse came crashing down upon her like a huge on-rushing wall of rain. Today, her pride would not let her keep silent, and she would defend herself from the abuse. Time and again, Anne had acted inappropriately in the past, but she had changed, hoping that he would appreciate her efforts, but he didn’t.
Reverie was in the air, but nobles threw curious glances at them from time to time.
Shooting him an indignant look, the queen riposted, “Your Majesty implies that you can murder me if I cuckold you. What about your own persona? Every day you betray me with that Seymour prostitute and other whores. Yet, you cannot withstand the thought of someone else touching me.” She scoffed. “Any man can become enamored with me, Henry.”
The monarch’s face purpled with rage. “Anne–”
“My beloved husband!” interrupted his fearless spouse, her chin set at an obstinate angle. This time, nothing would deter her from confronting him, for her patience had been running thin for months. “Or does the idea of me carrying another man’s child cause you to feel both shocked and mortified? Or maybe you are dismayed like a general who lost a decisive battle?” She broke into a snicker full of undisguised malice. “Do such fantasies make you hate me so much that you cannot suppress the urge to browbeat me into a submissive behavior?”
Henry gripped her forearm. “Madame, you have forgotten who you are,” he hissed.
The Boleyns and Norfolk traded alarmed glances; they couldn’t hear their conversation, but the king’s actions spoke volumes without any words. Brandon, Chapuys, and Cromwell exchanged leers with the Seymours, pleased to see the monarch quarrel with his spouse.
With a mutinous air about her, she audaciously articulated, “Henry, I cannot shrug off your threats, and I never will.” Grinning sardonically, she stated mockingly, “After all, you always pedal the same old drivel. You should invent something new.”
“Don’t provoke me,” growled Henry, his red-gold hair flaming like his temper. “I shall not continue this argument. I permit you to lead a humble life until I wish to notice you.”
A portentous silence ensued between them, punctured by laughter and music.
With a sigh of frustration, Anne tore her gaze away from the monarch and stared into space. This relationship is unsalvageable, and the problems contained in our marriage are too much to bear, she concluded. A blend of conflicted emotions – anguish, fear, disappointment, and despair – alternated within her like a pendulum, but bitter disappointment overrode everything else. During their long courtship and at the beginning of their matrimony, the mere sight of Henry had left her breathless, but now she didn’t even want to look at him.
Her whole being plummeted into the depths of a hollowness so profound and penetrating that its scar would remain forever. Anne was puzzled as to why she felt so at the moment, and questions circled her brain. Why was that feeling of hollowness as rampant as the mettle of a belligerent warrior on the battlefield? Why did despondency become such an epidemic for every part of her being? Why was there a malaise, a sense that something was missing?
Barring the disconcerting thoughts from her mind, the Queen of England sniggered. “Your Majesty might sleep with as many women as you crave. I shall not object if you expand the collection of bodies in your bed with the frequency of changing clothes and jewelry. I will walk a tightrope day and night if it pleases you.” A smirk creased her visage. “But why it is tantalizing for you to think that one of my beaus can desire me, even though I belong to you?”
“You are my wife, Anne!” His imperial countenance indicated a sense of possessiveness.
The king scrutinized his spouse appareled in an extravagant French gown of golden brocade, wrought with diamonds and sapphires, its sleeves trimmed with silver Venetian lace of the finest quality, her stomacher embroidered with gold. An exquisite circular headdress of goldsmith’s work confined her raven tresses, and set off her lovely countenance. He directed a lustful stare at her bosom, revealed by a low, square-cut neckline and adorned with a stunning single strand of pearls with gold “B” pendant hanging from the center. His beautiful queen was a Boleyn in appearance and spirit, her exuberant allure captivating him as much as her dark charm did.
Anne is mine! Only mine! Until her death! She shall never belong to another man! Such were Henry’s thoughts, inspired by that typical deep-seated possessiveness of all the men of the royal and aristocratic station. She could not harbor amorous sentiments towards anyone else: she could love only him, her sovereign and lord. The arc of her earthly and heavenly existence must always gravitate towards the superior majesty of the highest authority in England – towards him. All joys and sorrows in her life must arise from his mighty influence over her.
“Only mine,” the ruler voiced his thoughts, and she arched a brow.
A sparkle flickered in Anne’s eyes, but it rapidly disappeared. The words ‘wife’ and ‘mine’ sounded so hollow when he pronounced them. When she witnessed the king with the harem of his harlots, she didn’t suffer as dreadfully as she had done before. Every time he revealed a beastly facet to himself, her aversion towards her own husband skyrocket. Yes, it was aversion, and the seeds of this feeling were deeply rooted in the landscape of her emotions. Unable to explain all this to herself, Anne thrust these thoughts aside and refocused on the topic at hand.
“Do such musings bruise your inflated ego, sire?” A vitriolic laugh spurt out of her. “I can be obedient to you. But if I no longer ignite a fire in you, would that not be dull?”
Gnashing his teeth, Henry ground out, “It is none of your business, Anne.”
“Of course! You are almost God,” jeered the queen.
“Shut up.” The ruler snarled something virulent under his breath.
Her features were unruffled, but her lips appeared as if a scathing smile would curve their shape at any second, and those fathomless dark eyes twinkled with a hint of an acrid smirk. “Obeying Your Majesty, I shall stop talking. The only thing I like more than talking is eating.”
§§§
King Henry flicked his gaze to Lady Jane Seymour, who still stood in the corner with her brothers and father. Anne noticed that his eyes twinkled at the sight of the slut’s smile, finding the situation strangely amusing – she did not care about Henry’s infidelities as much as she had done before. The monarch didn’t love Jane: he loved himself more than all the women whom he had bedded.
Anne intercepted Henry’s salacious gaze directed at Lady Ursula Misseldon, one of her new ladies-in-waiting. Her spouse would add the woman to the long list of his jades. As Henry beckoned the Duke of Suffolk to him, she snickered. Henry’s hunting parties in the company of Charles Brandon and Francis Bryan are damn infamous. My husband’s lapdog shall always assist him in finding a willing pretty woman, and now he will work as his king’s matchmaker. A cloud of indifference settled over Anne, and she grinned to herself.
After speaking to his liege lord, Suffolk marched over to Ursula Misseldon. Henry then permitted Jane and her relatives to approach the thrones. Jane curtsied, a demure smile on her features, her eyes downcast. The Seymours bowed to the king who greeted them affectionately.
Unlike her frowning relatives, Anne considered the whole matter hilarious. To her dismay, charming was the appearance of the Seymour whore tonight. Her modest English gown of white velvet had a decently cut neckline, the bodies ornamented with pearls. From her neck dangled a chain of gold with a diamond cross, and she had her long blonde hair arranged in a simple bun, hidden beneath a gable hood studded with gems. In Anne’s opinion, her conservative fashions didn’t form what a man with taste in women would call a ravishing picture.
The queen stifled a laughter when the blonde rose from her curtsey that could never rival Anne’s own enchanting curtsey. The wench needs to take lessons of courtly manners, which I received in childhood at the courts of Archduchess Margaret and King François. Oh, no! She should learn to write in English without mistakes before advancing her education. It was truly amusing that Henry was actually drawn to such a mousy woman, colorless like a dried-out weed.
King Henry stood up and stepped to his mistress. “Jane, I have missed you, my beloved,” he delivered, not caring that Anne and his close entourage could hear him.
A bashful smile painted itself on his lover’s lips. “Your Majesty is always in my heart.”
A pang of regret surged through the monarch. His marriage to a genteel, tractable woman such as Jane would have been far easier than that of Anne, and he would have been filled with joie de vivre. Sadly, his life with his wife would always be encumbered by the chains of her jealousy and intemperance. Anne would have sequestered him away from all the temptations and enticements of life if she could. He could not replace the mother of his heirs, and he also still desired her. My love for Anne is as strong as ever, but Jane is precious to me as well.
Henry looked at his paramour with a tenderness that caused his wife to squirm internally. “Your beauty can vie with that of the loveliest ancient goddess, Jane. I hope you will agree to be my maîtresse-en-titre.” His gaze shifted from Jane to Anne. “My queen will not object.”
The Seymour brothers stood a few respectful paces behind their jubilant sister. They were both ablaze with pomposity and pride, like a bone-dry bale of hay set afire.
Thomas Boleyn’s eyes were shooting daggers. Thomas Howard and George Boleyn looked worried before their faces regained neutrality. Charles Brandon and Thomas Cromwell wore triumphant smiles. The assemblage watched the exchange between Henry and his two women with interest, but they stood too far to eavesdrop. Those who heard the king’s proposal gaped.
In a voice tinged with awe, Jane blurted out, “Sire, I’m beholden to you like never before.”
At this very moment, Queen Anne felt nothing, as if an enormous hole had been gouged in her soul. Jane’s consent solidified her emotional estrangement from Henry, but there was no pain in her breast. An aura of venerable and cold dignity engulfed her in an apathetic haze, her eyes aloof, while her expression morphed into bland nonchalance. I have been scuffed by the wear and tear of life. Maybe that is why I’m past caring for what else Henry might do to me.
Henry fondled Jane’s cheek. “You have made me happy, my darling.” However, inwardly he was not pleased, because he anticipated some resistance from Jane.
“I shall keep you happy and out of harm’s way, sire,” avowed Jane.
Anne’s rejoinder was both tart and whimsical. “Lady Jane, you are such a compassionate enchantress! Do you fancy yourself as a heroine capable of saving kings and warriors, just as the Goddess Aphrodite helped the Trojans and protected Paris during the Trojan War?”
His paramour blushed to the roots of her hair, so the monarch interceded on her behalf. “According to Homer, on another occasion, Aphrodite, Goddess of love and beauty, was knocked down by Athena, Goddess of wisdom and warfare, because of having aided Ares, God of war. Jane’s demeanor is like that of the Goddess Hera, for her life is centered on marriage, family, and childbirth.” He snickered. “You, Anne, personify Aphrodite, for you are beautiful, strong, and intrepid all at once. Moreover, Jane doesn’t need to know mythology and trifles like this.”
The queen’s smirk was enthralling. “Perhaps education is the sweet fruit of bitter root.”
Henry gurgled with laughter. “Ah, witty Nan…” In his spouse’s eyes, it was sacred for a noblewoman to obtain a stellar education. He could not help but admire her pun, although he figured out her thinly veiled insult at Jane without reprimanding her.
“Ah, frolicsome Hal…” purred Anne.
The king and queen exchanged smiles. The Seymour brothers were seething.
“Her Majesty is too clever,” jeered Jane, causing Henry to frown at her.
The official royal mistress sent Anne a nasty glance, but the queen leered at her. Unable to withstand the Boleyn glare and leer, Jane averted her gaze, fidgeting with the folds of her skirt. Anne did have good cause to hate Jane and seek revenge for the sufferings her rival’s affair with Henry had caused her. However, to her surprise, there was no abhorrence for Jane in Anne, as if it had seeped out of her body some time ago. She does not understand that Henry loves himself above all things. Himself – not me, her, or anyone else, Anne mused with pity.
Her lips arranged in a conceited grin, Anne addressed the slut, “Madame, remember that His Majesty has his queen and does not need another.” She flitted her gaze to her husband and deadpanned, “Martin Luther says: ‘From faith flow love and joy in the Lord, and from love a free and joyous spirit of voluntary service of our neighbor’.” Her voice rose to a crescendo. “Thanks to her ordinary spirit, Lady Jane will demonstrate her boundless love for His Majesty.”
Henry shot Anne a fulminating look. “Anne, no dramatics–”
Anne cut him off. “Dearest sire, I do not object to Lady Jane becoming your maîtresse-en-titre. I know my obligations well, and I shall carry them out on my own; you have reminded me of them today. I also wish you both to have a vigorous night today.”
“Oh my goodness,” muttered an embarrassed Jane. Her brothers scowled.
Momentarily flabbergasted, the monarch was at a loss for words. But it was not Anne’s boldness or her barbed speech that bemused him – it was the arctic chill he discerned in her eyes, which injured his pride and vanity. “Stop now, Anne,” he barked after an awkward pause.
“One of my duties is to entertain you, Henry,” answered his wife casually, “in all the ways I can. The first ingredient in conversation is truth, the next good sense, the third good humor.”
Once more, the king howled with laughter. “Clever as the devil and twice as lovely.”
§§§
As the royal paramour and her relatives walked away and mingled with guests, the herald announced the arrival of the Lady Mary Tudor in the banqueting hall.
Anne recollected her last meeting with Mary who had served in Elizabeth’s household at the time. The bastardized princess had promised that she would never recognize her mother’s marriage as null and void, calling Anne her father’s mistress. Eventually, the girl had yielded to the king’s demands: Anne had explained to her that if she continued claiming that she was the true Princess of Wales, she would be arrested and tried for high treason.
As the lady entered, a hush blanketed the audience like a pall of malevolent smoke.
Mary’s young years had brought her to full bloom, her figure as slim and softly rounded as Catherine of Aragon’s had been in youth. Her attire consisted of a stunning gown of silver and black velvet embellished with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. Her girdle was of gold and pearls, her stomacher gleaming with diamonds and other precious stones. A gold thread was woven into her long, auburn arranged in an up-do on the nape of her head, her headdress of goldsmith’s work, like that of Queen Anne. She wore one of the gowns which Anne had sent for Mary to Hatfield after they had chosen the date of Mary’s return to court.
Mary crossed to the thrones and dropped a curtsey, her head bowed and her countenance impenetrable. Her trials and tribulations had taught her the art to conceal her emotions. Inside she was shaking with mortal fright, as though she had been confined to the universe of Hades. My life has been utterly wrecked by the Boleyn witch. Now the king – I cannot even call him my father, not even in my mind – has a son, and he doesn’t need me. I must obey him if I want to keep her head. My mother would not want to see me in the Tower, Mary speculated.
Her parent’s voice wrenched Mary from her reverie. “Rise, Lady Mary.”
She rose from her curtsey but didn’t dare look at him. “Your Majesty,” she greeted.
His gaze oscillating between Anne and Mary, Henry enlightened, “My beloved Queen Anne pleaded with me to show mercy to you.” He was grateful to his wife for his reconciliation with his eldest daughter, although he didn’t comprehend how Anne had accomplished what he and his councilors had failed to do. “She informed me about your wish to sign the Oath.”
The young woman assembled courage and glanced at the royal couple. She almost recoiled from the ruler’s stony expression as his piercing gaze traversed her form. She sighed as a sense of vacillation twisted her gut, and, for a fraction of a second, she imagined that it was just the worst nightmare in her life. However, as her eyes met the king’s, Mary became cognizant of her horrible situation. The former princess still cared for her father on some level, but her affection for him was besmirched with his cruelty, for he had hurt her beyond repair. Moreover, the king and his queen had transformed England into a heretical carnival of vice and doom so that Mary didn’t yet know how to find her place in the newfangled, abominable reality.
Feeling Mary’s instinctive dread, Anne offered an encouraging smile. “Our esteemed Lady Mary, I give you my word that I shall ascertain the pleasure of your stay at court. You are the king’s daughter, and from now on, you shall be treated as royalty.”
“You shall find me forgiving and generous, Mary,” intoned Henry.
For an instant, Mary thought that Anne’s rumored strife with the king could amalgamate some of their interests, for in theory they could obtain a stimulus from each other to survive and navigate the dangers and pitfalls at the Tudor court. Then she shook her head, berating herself for such an unholy thing – she could never be an ally of the villainous witch whom she would be pleased to see burned at the pyre. The Great Whore is a mere nobody, a commoner put in a seat of power, as well as a satanic usurper of my mother’s throne and place in the king’s heart.
“I’m exceedingly grateful to Her Majesty,” enunciated Mary, struggling to keep her voice devoid of emotions. “I hereby acknowledge my mother's union with Your Majesty as invalid. My mother was the wife of your late brother and, thus, Princess Dowager of Wales.” The hairs on her neck bristled in the only form of rebellion she could be involved in her dire predicament. “The validity of your marriage to Queen Anne is beyond doubt.” She stilled and gulped down a lump of bitterness. “I have no claim over the title of Princess of England, so I recognize Princess Elizabeth and Prince William as your only legitimate children and heirs.”
Anne’s heart skipped a beat: Mary had just abased herself to the lowest depths. She was not fond of the girl and Catherine of Aragon, but she respected them for their strength and even for their stubbornness, as they had waged war for what they believed belonged to them. She wondered why they had fought a lost battle, not understanding that their fierce resistance had aggravated the situation and led to their persecution on Henry’s orders. Anne also felt guilty of exhorting Henry to treat Mary as a servant in order to coerce her into submission.
The surprised murmur of the courtiers buzzed in the air like a swarm of bees. The Dukes of Norfolk and Wiltshire smiled, relieved that Mary no longer posed a threat to Anne. Queen Catherine’s supporters – Charles Brandon and his spouse, Catherine Willoughby, Ambassador Eustace Chapuys, the Seymour clan, and some others – looked grim.
It is cruel of the king to allow all the nobles to witness my humiliation. The Boleyn whore was at fault! Her Jezebel of a stepmother had such a regal air about her, as if she had been born into royalty. Catherine of Aragon’s daughter prided herself on having far more royal blood in her veins than all the Boleyns altogether. Nonetheless, she had signed off her rights to the throne to save herself. A tide of irrepressible rage rushed through her like a fizzing current, nearly overtaking her self-control, and she cursed the whore to the pits of the netherworld.
Mary caught Anne’s gaze, and each of them predicted that they would be adversaries in the years to come. The shadow of Catherine stood between them, flickering over their paths with allegorical hues of light tinged in crimson by the dead queen’s blood. How long, how terribly, how unfairly, Mary had suffered at the hands of the harlot! Unbeknownst to the girl, Anne regretted that they would not be allies, and if she had verbalized it, her stepdaughter wouldn’t have believed her. Maybe their mutual hostility would die away in the course of nature.
The satisfied ruler smiled smugly. He did not have any inclination to brand his daughter a traitor and execute her. “Lady Mary, we are delighted that you have seen the truth. Be true to me, your sovereign, and we will be true and loving to you. Whatever may be our decree, you will obey us. You have not entirely forfeited my favor. Does it content you?”
A gust of fury billowed through Mary at the thought that the Boleyns relished the moment of their victory over her and her sainted mother. But she put on a brave face and promulgated, “May every blessing be conferred upon Your Majesty… I hereby declare my obedience to you as your loving daughter and loyal subject, and I humbly beseech you to pardon me.”
“We appreciate your humility, my own daughter,” appeased Henry in a voice colored with warmth. “Archbishop Crammer will guide you through the Oath.”
Mary inclined her head. “As Your Majesty commands.”
Queen Anne breathed out a sigh of relief as Lady Mary put her hand on the Bible and took the Oath. Listening to the girl’s droning words about the things she apparently hated, Anne found herself devoured by chagrin. I should still be careful, for she might be the death of me. Yet, she was willing to find common ground with Mary, for the vicious as well as the virtuous often mingled on earth, although she didn’t consider herself wicked in any sense.
Henry chuckled when Mary finished. He stood up, strode to his daughter, and placed his hands upon her shoulders. “Welcome to court,” he said with a cordial smile.
A blush suffused her cheeks. “Thank you, sire.”
“Father,” corrected the king, a radiant smile blossoming in the halo of his red hair.
Her surprise was evident in the gasp that erupted from her, for she didn’t anticipate the monarch being amicable towards her. “Yes, Father,” Mary echoed with a tremulous smile.
Anne watched Henry kiss Mary on the forehead, and a sliver of relief washed over her. She then proclaimed, “Bless His Majesty, and grant him a long and prosperous reign!”
Acclamations echoed throughout the banqueting hall like thunder rolling across a leaden firmament. The congregation cheered loudly, gasps of exhilaration jetting from their mouths.
“Bless the king’s benevolent soul!”
“God save and protect King Henry!”
“Long live King Henry and Queen Anne!”
Soaring on the wings of elation, the Queen of England earnestly embraced the current buoyant reality in all its dimensions. This moment will live forever in my memory. Live? That is exactly what it shall not do. I shall not remember the cheers Henry does not deserve. Upon intercepting Mary’s subdued gaze, she inferred that there was at least one more breast in this chamber in which there was no earthquake of excitement in honor of the narcissistic ruler. Perhaps Henry’s excesses might precipitate his end, and then her son would inherit the Crown.
As Mary strolled to Chapuys, Anne heaped flatteries upon her husband. “Your Majesty, we live in the land of the blessed, of which glorious poets of our time sing.”
A gleeful Henry chortled. “The Golden Age of England is neither a dream nor a fable.”
“Of course,” she breathed. “Who is the Virgil of our Golden Age?”
“Thomas Wyatt!” cried the monarch. “Let’s ask him to compose poems in my honor.”
The mention of Wyatt, whom she always kept at a distance from herself, discomfited her. Thanks be to the Almighty that her secret was safe with the loyal poet. She artfully shuttered the unwelcome emotion away behind the ebullient façade as she chuckled. Once more, she was baffled as to why she felt no contrition for her deceit. The marriage vows are not binding for men. It is inequitable that women must uphold them.
The stoic mask fell into place, and Anne uttered jauntily, “Sir Wyatt’s lyrics in stanza forms show a tenderness of feeling. Such odes might become a lasting monument of your power, sire.”
“A monument of my glory!” The king cackled, the sound like water gushing out of the dam. So perfunctory and mercurial, incompatible with Anne… As if a man, whose ego had sustained a severe narcissistic injury, now impoverished of empathy and depth, had just laughed.
Queen Anne strangled a laugh bubbling up inside. Most of her dreams materialized: she was a queen accepted, if not loved, by her subjects, as well as the mother of the future English ruler. That, however, did not fill the void in her heart, as though some mythological monster had swallowed a large part of her. The blooming happiness, which her queenship was supposed to bring into her life, had vanished, like the disc of the sun shrinking in its size in the darkening canopy of heaven, and, instead, now a chasmal abyss of ruin yawned before her feet.