Anne Boleyn: A Novel (40 page)

“Face them,” he urged. “And face him too; you’ll never mend anything lying rotting here. And remember this: We’ve always been together, even as children. If anything frightened you, you used to run to me, Nan.”

“And you went out to defend me,” she finished. “I remember.”

“That hasn’t changed. I stand with you. Nan, whatever happens. We’re truly alone, I think, from what I’ve seen and heard, but at least we’re alone together. We’ll fight together and get the best terms from him we can, if what you think is true. I’m not altogether without friends and influences, nor are you. I have money and tenants I can raise, and every Protestant in England thinks of you as their patroness. We won’t be so easy to dislodge and mistreat as some people seem to think.”

“I won’t have you in danger,” she said steadily. “I’ve brought enough suffering on others. I won’t risk anything happening to you.”

“Nothing will happen to me,” he promised. “And remember. Nan, brother and sister we stand together, now as all through our lives. To the death.”

She squeezed his hand and nodded.

“And you’ll take heart and get strong and well enough to come out quickly? You promise me that?”

“I promise,” she said.

“Keep a good heart, then,” he said gently, “and be as brave as you’ve always been.”

He kissed her thin cheek and waved to the waiting woman, old Lady Wingfield, who was dozing in a chair by the fireplace. He left her and walked slowly away down the corridor, without seeing the figure of his wife disappear through a doorway. She had been waiting, watching that closed door, until he came out.

Anne had kept her promise to her brother, and as soon as she was strong enough, she dressed and appeared in public. The ordeal was eased for her by his presence; he gave her his arm and supported her down the corridors from her apartments to the crowded gallery. A hush had fallen on the courtiers when they saw her in the doorway. The laughter and talk died away, leaving an awkward silence. Slowly she walked forward, her fingers digging into George’s arm, and still no one moved or spoke.

It was Norreys who came to her first; she saw a figure detach itself from a small crowd round one of the window seats and recognized him; her heart jumped, and the hand he seized and kissed was shaking.

“Welcome back, Madame. The court’s a brighter place for your presence.”

She thanked him and saw the look in his blue eyes that had betrayed him on the day Sir Thomas More was executed, when the King laid the blame on her. She saw the look which said he loved her, though he had denied it out of fear on that occasion, and she thanked him for that and his courageous act with a quick pressure of his hand. After that, several of the ladies curtsied and the men bowed; light-hearted Francis Weston saluted her, and a general polite murmur ran through the gallery. The King was not there to give the lead and it was safer not to be too hostile. Only Sir Edward Seymour turned his head and stared in the opposite direction as she passed.

As George said afterward, there was no better way to find their friends. She had nodded, already tired out, thinking of Norreys again and wanting to burst into tears because she was less deserted than she had imagined. He had been brave to do that; no one appreciated what it might mean to him better than she did, should the King hear the story and decide to punish him.

If she got the chance to speak to Henry, she would try to soften the account. But no action was taken against Norreys; he remained in the King’s circle of intimates, his favor apparently unimpaired. And Anne never managed to speak to the King on that or any other subject.

Two days later they dined together in public, according to custom; Anne sat on his right hand and received his ceremonial kiss of welcome as she took her place, aware that hundreds of eyes were staring at her, and feeling only the freezing glance of his eyes as they rested for a moment on her face. No word passed between them during the meal. The King spoke to his neighbors and leaned across her to speak to the Duke of Suffolk, but he said nothing to her. She sat through the meal, trying to eat; she even tried to talk to Suffolk in her desperation, but the Duke bent over his plate and grunted. He was grinning at her discomfiture; he could have reminded her under his breath of those other times when she had snubbed and contradicted him and mocked him; he had always sworn to be revenged and now he was. The vengeance was sweet; he glanced up at her white face and settled back to enjoy himself.

When dinner was over the King turned to her.

“I trust you are recovered fully, Madame, and can fulfill your official duties, as I intend to fulfill mine.”

Then he left the table, followed by Suffolk, who pushed against her deliberately, and said something and laughed to Sir Edward Seymour as he passed.

That was the pattern of her future. She was to continue in her official capacity as Consort, to appear at court ceremonies, to eat with the King in public, to be present on any State occasion he deemed her presence necessary. But he would neither speak to her nor see her privately, and he had made it plain that she could be insulted with impunity. Jane Seymour’s brother was made a gentleman of his privy chamber and installed in rooms communicating with his own, so that Henry could see his favorite when he wanted to; everyone knew the extent of those visits; they took place every single day, and they were marked by an ominous decorum.

The King had such respect for the iron virtue of Mistress Seymour that he undertook never to speak to her alone. Someone was always present in that little chamber, while he wooed the impenetrable woman; someone watched when he held her hand and ventured to press it to his lips. Never did he hold her as he had Anne; the crudities which had attracted him to Anne originally were forbidden now, eschewed by his own wish. There should be nothing in this relationship to remind him of his feelings for that other...Nothing to recall the shameful heat, the bitter disillusion, the recurring sense of guilt which seeped into him after his failures. She had befouled passion, he thought violently; only in the cool purity of this unusual woman he had found, could he find peace and cleanliness again.

And Cromwell had promised him that he should find it by the spring.

The King bore with the sight of Anne; he tortured himself unmercifully by having her in his presence and at his table, when her scent or the sound of her voice taunted him with memories of that day in January when she showed him an image of himself that he must banish out of his mind one day or else go mad...He punished himself ruthlessly for having loved her, and he drew some comfort from her agony. She was in agony and he knew it; indeed, now that he was fortified by Cromwell’s promise, it gave him the keenest satisfaction of his life to imagine her suspense and to keep her in it. He knew her eagle fierceness and guessed that she longed for an excuse to bring him within reach, down to the level of their old intimacy, where she had an equal chance. He never gave it to her; coldness and silence were breaking that strong spirit, as violence never could. He had found her weakness and probed it without pity, as she had probed his.

He watched her grow thinner and detected an odd air of uncertainty in the way she spoke and moved, noticing how low her pride was falling by the way she clung to the few men and women who still sought her out. Norreys was one of them, and Weston; the serious Brereton too, who had so nearly killed him at the joust. All good friends of his before she seduced them away, spoiling that intimacy as she had spoiled everything he loved.

They should pay for that desertion. These defectors should pay for every hour they spent with her and her treacherous brother, for every moment of laughter or relief they gave her. Without them she might have suffered more. They were giving her counsel and strength; he noticed with fury that by April she had adapted herself outwardly at least, that the signs of physical distress were balanced by a new dignity, a strange determined calm that threatened to place her out of reach of pain or insult. He sent for Cromwell and asked him one question only:

“How much longer?”

The Secretary held his gaze.

“I have studied the reports received by loyal members of the Queen’s household. I fear they lead to a grave suspicion. It is too vile to be mentioned to you until proved. By May Day I shall have that proof.”

Smeaton the lute player was in high spirits that morning of April 30th. The last three months had been the happiest of his life, for he had been in daily attendance on the Queen. The Queen was sick at first and needed cheering; he sang and played the gayest tunes he knew, and hung around her rooms every day in the hope of a summons which usually came. He was gentle and romantic-minded; the attention of some of the less discreet court ladies had made him aware of his good looks and encouraged dangerous fantasies regarding the one who never looked at him at all. His vanity had given him the courage to pay her compliments and to disregard the rebuffs he received. She liked his playing, and he was certain she liked him. He bent over his lute and imagined coming close to her as he had done to others, touching her neck and her hair, and bending down to reach her mouth. The image made him blush and kept him awake at night, reliving the moments when the little group who spent so much time with her were silent, and her attention was given to him and his music.

He was popular with them all except Sir Henry Norreys; Norreys was arrogant. And he had seen Norreys looking at her when he thought it safe to do so. Norreys wasn’t snubbed and put in his place, because he was a great noble...Smeaton hated Norreys.

She was writing when he approached her that morning, and he waited in the doorway till she looked up.

“What is it, Mark?”

She laid down her pen, putting aside an appeal from a poor clergyman who had been deprived of his benefice because he was suspected of Lutheran sympathies. Many similar petitions came to her, begging her to use her influence on their behalf—small hope of that—she thought bitterly; or asking for money and protection, seeking her recommendation to a better living. What she had begun out of policy, to win as many of the Reforming clergy to her side as she could, had become a charity which cost her hundreds of pounds in alms. She had nothing now but money to give anyone who appealed to her, and all her life Anne had been generous with whatever she had.

In return these people prayed for her and somehow the thought of their good wishes comforted her. They addressed her as their sweet patroness, and she tasted the pleasure of good works which used to seem so dull and hypocritical when she was young, with both hands grasping for the things of this world. She had gained exactly what she sought; but the jewels had turned to stones, the prominence placed her now on a high platform of humiliation, and the downfall of her enemies gave little satisfaction; more grew in their place, like the dragon’s teeth in the fable. Her hands were empty after all, and they were beginning to clutch at other consolations.

She noticed Smeaton coloring as he approached her; he always reddened if she spoke to him or paid him any attention; even if she were angry, he bore it better than being ignored or treated according to his place. He was spoiled and foolish, and lately she and George and all her small circle of friends had indulged him far too much.

“I’d like your permission to go out this afternoon, Madame,” he said.

“You know you can go where you please,” she reminded him. “There’s no need to interrupt me on trivialities, Mark. You know that quite well!”

“Yes, Madame.” He looked down. “But Master Secretary Cromwell has invited me to dinner at Stepney today, and I thought if you wanted me to play to you, you might be angry if I wasn’t here. If you do want me, Madame, I’d gladly stay...”

“Cromwell...” She frowned. “Cromwell’s invited you, you say?”

He smiled delightedly. He had been bursting with pride over the invitation since a page handed it to him that morning.

“Yes, Madame. I imagine he wants to hear me play, but he’s asked me to dine with him just the same!”

She shrugged. “In that case, go. Make much of the opportunity, Mark, for he has the favor of the King!”

“I want no one’s favor,” the boy boasted, “as long as I have yours! I live and die your servant, Madame. Your humble servant,” he added quickly. He hurried away, humming, and went to change into his best doublet. An invitation to the Secretary’s house at Stepney was a great honor.

The cellar walls were thick; there was a sheen of damp on them, for they were below the level of the riverbank. No one could hear anything; Cromwell leaned forward in his chair.

“Give the cord another turn,” he said.

“Aaah...aaah...!”

The scream rose to a deafening pitch, beating against the dark walls of the cellar at Stepney, and died away, choking in Smeaton’s throat.

He was bound to a chair, and two of the Secretary’s servants were standing over him, tightening a rough cord around his forehead with a stick. The skin had broken, and the blood was making a hideous pattern down his face. Cromwell watched him impassively as he sank back, writhing with pain and only signaled to the torturers to keep the stick tight.

“What you feel now, Master Smeaton, is a caress compared to the next time they twist it. You’ll find your eyeballs on your cheeks. Answer me, before I give the word again. You are in love with the Queen, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the voice sobbed.

That was the truth, and Cromwell knew it; the spying chamber-women hadn’t lied when they said that.

“And you’ve committed adultery with her, haven’t you?” There was a pause, and Cromwell made a quick gesture.

The shriek was inhuman that time. It was such a simple method, and so seldom used, considering its efficacy. The only difficulty was that if the victim held out too long, he fainted. Smeaton vomited instead.

“You have committed adultery with her, haven’t you?”

He couldn’t answer at first; the Secretary knew the signs too well to mistake them for obstinacy.

“Haven’t you?” he asked again.

It was only a whisper.

“Yes.”