Secrets of the Tudor Court (20 page)

Her recovery is slow. The king, completely discouraged with Anne’s inability to carry a child to term, does not go to her anymore. He has set his sights on the meek Jane Seymour.

I hate Jane. I want to slap her every time I see her. She pretends to be meek and modest, praying like a diligent little nun, and all the while she plays at the same game Anne did when King Henry was married to Catherine! She even goes so far as to copy Anne’s refusal of a gift, as it might compromise her “virtue” to accept it, and she cannot submit to being a mistress, but only a wife. This was an Anne original, overseen by Norfolk, of course.

We are beside ourselves with annoyance.

“It’s her brother, that upstart Edward,” says Norfolk. “And that idiot Thomas. They are pushing her forth. Unfortunately she is just what the king wants right now—a little breath of fresh air after being at odds with Her Grace all the time.”

I sigh in exasperation. The parallels are so unbelievable to me that voicing them would just earn me a beating, so I say nothing.

“And if that damn fool Anne doesn’t start heeding my advice, there’s nothing to be done but bear it,” Norfolk continues. “I just do not know how to get through to her. She must submit to him, be meek—”

“She would not be herself should she behave thus,” I dare to say. “She can’t be someone she’s not. It’s not in her nature. She made it this far because of who she is, just as much as by you helping her.”

Norfolk glares at me.

I sigh and dare to continue. “My lord, I do not wish to remain in her service. This place frightens me. I want to begin my life with my lord Richmond. I am old enough now, nearly seventeen. Please.”

He shakes his head. “No. To leave the queen now would appear as though you were deserting her. You must remain and see this through.”

“How long?” I cry. “How long before
my
life can start?”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it, Mary?” His lips twist in that sardonic smile that chills me to my core. He rises. “You will stay by my side until I send you away. Is that understood?”

“No!” I cry. “It is not understood! You have no real use for me! Her Majesty has no use for me! I’m just here!” I sink to my knees before him, sobbing. “Let me go—oh, I beg you, my lord, let me go! I want to be a wife! I want to have a baby!”

He pulls me to my feet, gripping my shoulders. “Now, now, this won’t do. I have too much to think about for this nonsense. Go to sleep. Think of something pretty, anything you like, and I’ll see that it’s yours if only you leave this room.”

“I only want one thing, and that’s a child—you can’t give me that!” I cry.

“Mary! None of that filth!” he says, pushing me away. “Go!”

I turn, quitting the room, containing my sobs until I reach the maidens’ chamber where I throw myself on the bed, losing myself in the manner I always have, through sleep.

A strange escape comes in the form of sitting for Hans Holbein the Younger, the court painter, who has been commissioned to render my likeness. Norfolk chooses my gown and hood, a monstrosity bearing a ghastly feather that I detest—not the stylish French hood that Anne has made so popular.

Other than these inconveniences, I find sitting for the gentle painter a relaxing experience that gives my mind plenty of time to engage in the activity of wandering to happier places.

Holbein doesn’t say much. Now and then he’ll arrange my hands a certain way or remind me to bend my head. I am to look modest and prayerful; surely this is a device of my father, for Anne would have me appear strong and proud.

After the first sketch, where Holbein jots some notes about the color of my gown—a dainty yellow—he raises his head and smiles.

“You are very beautiful, Lady Richmond, if I may say so,” he tells me.

“Of course you may, Master Holbein!” I cry, thrilled to be receiving a compliment from a man whose profession is to seek out beautiful things.

“My only concern is that I will never be able to capture it.” He laughs. “You’re rather like a rainbow, you know. Sort of translucent, something one can admire and exclaim over but never really”—he squints as though the rainbow in his mind’s eye is somewhere just beyond his point of vision—“grasp.”

“Thank you, Master Holbein,” I tell him, taking the man’s chalk-stained hands in my own and offering a gentle squeeze. “Your words touch me in a way I cannot express.”

He sinks into a graceful bow and takes leave.

I will never forget him or that last day of my innocence.

Anne tries to distract herself from the king’s waning affections by holding court in her usual festive manner. Like her unfortunate predecessor, however, she watches as mealymouthed little Jane Seymour collects a group of courtiers in her own vulgar fashion. Jane’s mind is not possessed of the keen wit that Anne has, and her strategy, guided by her brother Edward no doubt, is to be as pious and tranquil as possible. Always she walks with her little head bowed, attending Mass at every opportunity, but making sure to be on King Henry’s lap when he calls.

I am fuming. I hate her. I am not fool enough to think she is better than Anne. Anne played the same game; one could (and many do) say that she is getting only what she deserves, but the difference between Jane and Anne is that Anne—temperamental, spoiled, vain Anne—is my cousin, my family. I am sworn to her.

The king’s neglect drives Anne to distraction. She throws her tantrums. There is nothing anyone can say or do about it. She sinks into deep melancholies and sobs for hours. She breaks into immoderate laughter that rings out a little too loud and a little too long. Sometimes she just sits on her chaise while Mark Smeaton, her favorite musician, flirts with her while playing his lute and sings soothing odes of adoration for his queen.

She still has her admirers. Francis Weston and Henry Norris are always about, eager to shower her with empty words of praise and adulation. Anne’s responses are a little colder toward the men. They are not what she wants—who she wants. It is not wise of them to be so open in their admiration, she subtly cautions.

But no one really listens.

And then one April day Mark Smeaton is arrested.

Madge Shelton is in a frenzy of terror as she relays the details to me. “They tortured him, Mary,” she says as tears stream down her cheeks. “They tortured him and made him confess…”

“Confess what?” I demand.

She cannot say it. She chokes on a sob.

I take her shoulders gruffly, then release her as an image of my father swims in my mind.
“Confess what?”
I cry.

“He is under suspicion of—of treason. Criminal knowledge of the queen.” The words are pulled forth in a whisper. Madge’s little face is white. We are in a terror.

“No…no…” I sink onto the bed, trembling. “No. Poor, dear man. They must have tortured him mightily for him to confess such lies—”

Madge is sobbing. “What will this mean for Her Majesty? What will this mean for Anne?”

I take her in my arms.

Madge is no fool.

The king has made his move. Anne’s brief reign is at an end.

Hopefully the temperamental queen will cooperate better with King Henry than the last one.

Anne is summoned before the Council led by William Fitzwilliam, the royal treasurer, and my father. My father. He led the examination against my cousin, his niece. I repeat these facts to myself over and over. I wonder what he is asking her. How does he look when he speaks to her? Does he appear reluctant to execute this dubious task? Is there any gleam of sympathy to be found in those black eyes?

I soon find out.

When Anne leaves the room she eyes me. “Your father has used me. All my life I’ve done nothing but his bidding, and this is what it all comes to.”

I cannot respond. What can I say to the truth?

We accompany her to her chambers, a court of frightened ladies, all pretending life is normal. We are always pretending. We do not talk about her examination proceedings, nor do we talk about Mark Smeaton. We embroider. We erupt into nervous giggles about nothing. We ramble about any nonsensical thing to strike our fancy, anything to distract us from these dark days.

My fingertips are bleeding from the needle pricks. It is foolhardy to try to embroider—it sits on my lap, abandoned, and I stare at nothing, trying to will myself somewhere else, anywhere but here.

And then Norfolk arrives.

His face is taut. “Come along, Your Majesty,” he says, proffering his arm.

Anne answers him with a questioning arch of her exquisite black brow. “Where are you taking me, Uncle Thomas?” Her voice sounds very young.

He draws in a breath. I cannot tell if he feels sorry or not. I pray the hesitation means it is so. “The Tower,” he says. “You are under arrest for high treason.”

I am sobbing. I retch from sobbing. Madge is holding me, rocking gently back and forth.

“How could he?” I cry over and over. “How could he?”

She shakes her head. We are all in awe. Nothing makes sense any more.

“What about Princess Elizabeth?” I ask. “What’s going to happen to the little princess?”

“Rest, Mary,” Madge coos. “There’s nothing you can do about anything. Rest and try not to upset yourself so much. You make yourself ill. Please. We can do nothing but ride the tide of events.”

“No…” I sob. This answer is not good enough for me. There must be something. Surely someone will come forward to speak for Anne, someone strong and credible.

But her most credible witness is her uncle, the premier duke in the land, Thomas Howard.

And he has made it clear where he stands.

He will not see me. No doubt he knows what I will say and he does not wish to expel any needed energy in beating me, so decides the best course is avoidance. Perhaps it is better this way.

The next few days are spent in a stupor. In three days five more men are arrested for having criminal knowledge of Her Majesty. They are Sir Francis Weston; Sir William Brereton; Sir Richard Page; my brother’s rival, the poet Sir Thomas Wyatt; and, worst of all—oh, the very worst of all—my dear, handsome cousin George Boleyn.

George has been accused of adultery with the queen, his own sister. His wife, the evil Jane Boleyn, is all too happy to accuse him, also claiming that Anne confided to her once in French that the king had “neither potency nor force” in the bedchamber.

My cousin, among all those other dear and pretty men, now suffers in the cold, damp cells of the Tower.

All of them are innocent. The knights, the poets, my dear George.

And Anne. Always Anne.

I cannot contain my hatred for Jane Boleyn. It spills over onto my cheeks in a torrent of hot tears as I regard her now, alone in the maidens’ chamber.

“She is your sister-in-law,” I tell her. “Your husband’s
sister.
How can you say such wickedness? How can you even
think
it?” My shoulders quake with sobs. “You and George have a child together. How can you risk George’s life? How can you risk the life of the father of your child?”

Jane shakes her head. “I’m doing what I have to do,” she tells me. “I have my reasons.”

“What reason can possibly justify this?” I demand, lunging at her. I pin her to the wall by the shoulders, in a show of strength I do not even know I possess. “Explain, Lady Rochford! Explain these despicable actions!”

Her face lacks expression; indeed, she almost appears amused. “I would have thought you Howards coined the term ‘despicable.’ Let us review the definition of the word so that it is very clear to you. ‘Despicable’ means neglecting your wife in favor of fondling your own sister—your own sister, and any stable boy or pretty-eyed fop that comes along. ‘Despicable’ is conceiving a child with your sister and bringing forth a monster in the hopes of passing him off as a prince!”

I break away in horror. “Stop! You must not say it! Don’t dare say it!” I recall my father’s adjective for her. “You
are
twisted! Sick! You are evil. May you rot in Hell with the devils that consume you!”

Jane only laughs. “Little Mary doesn’t betray the Howards. Loyal to the end, are you? Well, this is the end, Mary. This is the end of the Howards. We are going down. Nothing can save us—except perhaps betrayal. Your father is the master of that. Let him serve as an example to you.”

She quits the room and I am alone, left with her words playing in my mind over and over, like a relentless melody I despise.

Norris, Weston, Brereton, and poor, tortured Mark Smeaton stand trial and are found guilty of adultery and treason—to the king’s pleasure, no doubt. Their sentences are to be carried out at Tyburn, where they will be hung, eviscerated, and quartered.

My stomach is constantly upset. I cannot eat. My hair is falling out. I can pull out strands when I run my fingers through it. I wind it on top of my head in a simple chignon and try to ignore it.

The poet Wyatt and Sir Richard Page do not stand trial and remain in the Tower, to my relief. I am sure Surrey was hoping Wyatt would hang, just to have a rival poet out of the way, even though he grudgingly admires him.

On May 17, Anne and George’s trials begin. The Great Hall of the Tower of London, that place I found so magnificent when first arriving here, is full of people ready for blood. Everyone believes Anne is guilty; a witch, a seductress, a creature out of Hell.

They are tried before the lord high steward.

My father.

I cannot move. I watch the unraveling of not just our dreams, but of two fragile lives, used and abused in the worst ways possible. And they are tried before family and friends. My brother—yes, Surrey is here, eager to follow in his father’s footsteps—serves as earl marshal. Even Henry Percy, Anne’s first love, is present, white faced and having the good grace to appear agonized. And Secretary Cromwell, once so supportive of Anne, is also here, his manner as foxy as usual.

Only one does not attend. His Majesty.

But he has better things to do: courting Jane Seymour, who has moved into the palace—indeed, into Cromwell’s old apartments, which adjoin the king’s rooms by secret passageway. Even now rumors are rampant that her wedding dress is being made.