The Secret: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Tudor Chronicles Book 1) Page 14
A few weeks after Henry’s return, the court ladies and gentlemen decided to plan the Christmas and New Year festivities. Costumes were designed, music was composed and plays were written. Anne took a piece of music from Mark Smeaton’s portfolio and brought it across the solar, holding it out for George and Tom Wyatt to write some lyrics that might be performed for the King. Her hand extended from her sleeve and George saw the bruises encircling her wrist. His face darkened, and taking her arm, drew her away from the group – she barely had time to give the music to Tom.
‘Bruises again, sister?’ he growled.
‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with, brother,’ she replied, keeping her voice light and a smile on her face, as people were watching them curiously.
‘He is back in your bed then?’
‘He is my husband. I haven’t yet told him I’m with child,’ she looked up quickly, to see a look pass across George’s face, swiftly wiped and a mask come down over his eyes.
‘His child,’ a statement, not a question.
‘Hardly!’ Anne smiled her secret smile and George’s impassive mask lifted slightly. ‘But a prince. My son, the prince.’ Anne turned and walked back to the group, ignoring George as he left the room abruptly. She smiled at the gathering, ‘My brother and I ever argue. He will have forgotten about it in an hour.’
Anne decided that for the Twelfth Night ball, everyone would wear yellow, to celebrate the coming of the spring. Her gown would be magnificent, with a choker of yellow diamonds for her slender neck, and Henry’s doublet would have topaz clasps. The seamstresses would have to work very quickly to make sure everyone had a new outfit for the celebration, at which Anne decided to announce her pregnancy. She was quite small this time, and although her belly was rounding and hardening, she didn’t think anyone but George would notice quite yet. Henry certainly hadn’t, as his visits were becoming more regular, and Anne thought, considerably more ‘enthusiastic’.
The day after one such visit, Anne decided to stay in her chamber. Henry had certainly forgotten his own strength the previous night, and she wanted nothing more than time on her own to recover. She had the servants bring up a tub and fill it with lavender scented water for a leisurely bath, but she dismissed her maids – she wanted to bathe alone, without witnesses to how her body might look.
She let her shift slide from her body and pool on the floor, then stepped into the water, revelling in how the silky softness of the water eased her tired aching flesh. Suddenly a noise at the doorway behind her made her turn, water slopping over the edge of the bath. George looked at her levelly, then locked the door firmly behind him. Anne was aghast – it was the middle of the morning, with servants, ladies in waiting, the whole household milling about. Anyone could have seen. He walked slowly towards her, keeping her eyes held by his as he stepped over her shift and knelt down at her side.
He took the wash cloth wordlessly from her, and began to bathe her arms, from her wrists to her shoulders, soaping each bruise on her wrist and again on her upper arm where Henry had grabbed her. He paused to remove his doublet and roll up his shirt sleeves, then began to soap her breasts and neck, being careful with the bruises and red marks on the top of her breasts, which were filling out with her advancing pregnancy. Anne’s head tipped back at his touch. She knew the danger of him being in her chamber – no-one could get in, but anyone could have seen him enter. She didn’t – couldn’t - care, as his gentle ministrations drove everything out of her mind.
‘Stand up, my love,’ he whispered. She eased herself out of the water, her hair piled on top of her head with her tortoiseshell combs. As she stood and turned towards him, she saw fury wrinkle his brow, and she looked down at herself and gasped. The water had stung slightly, but nothing had prepared her for this. Her thighs were a mass of bruises and scratches that Henry must have done last night, keeping his rings on as he grasped her flesh in his enthusiasm for her body! She hadn’t felt them – her mind was always with George when Henry took her in bed, as she waited for him to finish and turn away from her.
George began to wash her legs gently, silently, then he picked her up out of the water, ignoring his wet shirt and trail of splashes on the floor, and laid her on the bed. He took a linen towel and began to dry her cooling flesh, inch by inch, and took a pot of salve from her dresser. With infinite care he applied the salve to her scratches and bruises, and when he had dried every inch of her, he dressed her in a clean night gown and tucked her into bed.
‘Go back to sleep, my love,’ he leaned down and kissed her on the lips, as his hand gently caressed and then rested carefully on the small tight mound of her belly. ‘I will send Mary and the servants to clear the tub away.’ He stood, tall, beautiful, golden, and left her, picking up his doublet as he went and fastening it over his wet garments before unlocking the door and leaving her chamber. Anne closed her eyes and slept.
***
Swiftly George strode angrily through the gallery, feeling all eyes on him as he walked, particularly those of his wife Jane. As he almost reached the King’s apartments, he saw Meg with a pile of linens in her arms.
‘Meg,’ his voice was low, but full of anger. The little maid lifted her gaze to his and quaked. His face softened when he saw the fear in her eyes. ‘Meg,’ gentler this time, ‘my sister sleeps in her chamber. Please find Lady Stafford and Madge Shelton and send them to her, to wait in her room until she wakes. She will have need of them.’
Meg bobbed a wordless curtsey and scurried off to do his bidding. George entered the King’s antechamber, and arranged his features into a broad smile.
‘Your Majesty!’ he exclaimed ‘Many congratulations, Sire. I have just left my sister and she told me your happy news.’ Thus no-one could tell the King he had been in Anne’s chamber and the King not know.
Henry looked at George, surprise and curiosity on his broad face. Then, taking his meaning but not wanting to admit he hadn’t known, Henry clapped George on the shoulders, saying, ‘Yes, yes. We wanted to keep the news a secret till the Queen was sure the babe would stay in her belly, but our secret is out now’, and laughing, he accepted the congratulations of the rest of his household.
George was satisfied. Henry would no longer trouble Anne’s bedchamber. The backstairs maids had better keep out of his way, but Anne was safe from his unwanted attentions. George went back to the throng, and made pleasant conversation with Harry Norris about the birth of a prince.
Chapter 21 - 1536
nne tried to distract herself with the arrangements for the festivities. During the Christmas celebrations, which lasted for 12 nights, the news came from Kimbolton Castle that Katharine, Dowager Princess of Wales, or Good Queen Katharine, depending on the allegiance, had died. She died without ever acknowledging her new title, without admitting she had consummated her marriage to Arthur, without her daughter at her side. Some of her final words to the Spanish Ambassador Eustace Chapuys, who had been a friend and confidant through her long years of banishment were reputed to be about Anne, saying, ‘She is my downfall, and I am hers’. People whispered between themselves what Katharine could possibly have meant, but Anne laughed when these words were reported to her, and carried on organising the celebration ball.
Anne was pleased to be freed from Henry’s attentions, but George too kept his distance. He was always in the group surrounding her, and would laugh and joke and whisper as always, but he was careful never to have the opportunity to see her alone. Jane Rochford was keeping her sharp eyes and even sharper voice pointed in their direction.
‘When she’s not muttering to Cromwell,’ said Anne disgustedly to Mary one evening when she was preparing for bed. ‘What on earth they have in common is beyond me.’
‘Perhaps they are romantically involved,’ said Mary, smiling at the possib
ility of spiteful Jane entertaining the solemn personage that was Thomas Cromwell.
Anne began to laugh, tears coming to her eyes. Then they started rolling down her cheeks, and her laughter, higher and more shrill than usual, turned to tears. She found she was often laughing too hard, or crying too much just lately. She apologised to Mary and attributed it to the child she carried. Mary was worried. Anne had also told her of the ‘dark shadow’ that seemed just out of her vision, and Mary worried about that too. She had a sense of foreboding that she couldn’t escape, and she didn’t know why.
***
Cromwell glanced at the note his clerk had passed ‘The Lair’. He poured himself a small cup of wine and sat back in his chair, gazing round the room as he did so. The office in this palace at Greenwich was not as busy as the one he had in Westminster, he thought. Here there weren’t dozens of clerks scurrying in and out with all the business of the country. The King chose to come here for relaxation, archery, drinking; all the things that didn’t make his injured leg, and therefore his temper, any worse. Real governance took place at Westminster but Jane Rochford often had secrets for him wherever the court was, whether it was here, or Richmond or Hampton Court. He had an ‘office’ in them all.
Cromwell realised that the things Jane told him, on their own, were just tales of indolent young men and women gossiping and teasing one another, for lack of anything more purposeful with which to fill their time. He still listened though, and filed it all away for when it could become useful. He sipped his wine as he waited for Jane to come sliding round the panelled door, full of yet another secret to hold against her sister in law.
Cromwell still didn’t know why Jane held this all-consuming dislike for Anne. He thought the Queen treated her ladies well, allowing them time for themselves and their own lives far more generously than in many noble households. She had so many maids in waiting that her ladies didn’t need to perform menial tasks for her, just keep her company and help her pass the time. Cromwell was so busy with all the King’s orders, he didn’t have time to spare to invent mischief. Perhaps if Lady Rochford had something meaningful in her own life, she wouldn’t have time for spite.
A scratching came at his door, then it opened and Jane Rochford seemed to slither into the room, almost not touching to floor as she glided over to the chair by the hearth, sinking into it and looking very small. She was obviously upset.
‘My Lady,’ Cromwell stood and bowed, then came over to the hearth. ‘Would you care for a cup of wine?’ Jane nodded, avoiding his gaze and keeping her eyes on the glowing coals. Cromwell went over to the side table and poured Jane a small cup of very good wine. He sipped at his own cup, savouring the taste. He thought how the Cardinal would have approved of his choice, smiling at the memory of Wolsey teaching him the difference between good and bad wine, many years ago now. He handed the cup to Jane with a slight bow, then made himself comfortable in the wing chair facing her, and waited.
He had learned that she would tell him everything he wanted to know without prompting, he just had to be patient at the start, until she had found the right words in her mind to begin her diatribe. Cromwell was a very patient man.
‘I’ve always known something,’ she began. Cromwell had learned to keep silent, and just listen. His memory was excellent so he never needed to take notes, just stay silent and listen well.
‘Even before, I knew really. I just didn’t KNOW! I saw them talking together, whispering, laughing, and then stopping whenever I came near. When anyone came near. They shared jokes, and said I wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand. When she was ill, he was distraught. But I was ill too, and that didn’t make him distraught. He left me in the care of the servants,’ bitterness showing in the tone of her voice.
Cromwell sat up a little straighter, brain working furiously as to where this disjointed tale was leading, which of Henry’s gentlemen she was speaking about.
‘Then she was married, and crowned, and he was always there, but that was his job, to be where the King was. And wherever she was, that’s where the King was. Then, when Elizabeth was born, and I saw him with her, I thought I might have a baby too. Perhaps that would please him. But nothing I could ever do would please him.’ Jane started wiping her eyes, tears of self-pity coursing down her cheeks.
‘Then the miscarriage, and Henry started to hurt her. I told him she was being hurt, and he didn’t say anything. Nothing! I only told him because I thought it would upset him, but I got no reaction. He doesn’t listen to anything I have to say,’ Jane looked across at Cromwell and smiled grimly, ‘but you listen, Master Cromwell. You always listen.’
‘Yes, my Lady. You tell me some very interesting things about what happens in the Queen’s presence. I am always grateful for your information.’ He was careful to keep the bewilderment out of his voice. He wished she would speak plainly.
‘I saw him in her room, Master Cromwell. No-one else, just him. She was naked in her bath and he went in and locked the door and stayed a long time. A very long time.’ Her voice was fading to a whisper as she remembered. Cromwell had no reason to doubt that what she said was the truth, but whose truth was he hearing? The truth of a resentful lady in waiting, sister-in-law to the Queen and treated like a servant? Or something much worse?
‘My Lady, I am always happy to see you, and very grateful for the information you have given me in the past, but I need to be clearer about whom we speak. I understand that you are speaking about the Queen and one of the King’s gentlemen. But which one, my Lady? If I am going to gather further evidence of their liaison, I need to know the gentleman’s name, the one that has been locked in a room while the Queen bathes.’ His tone was quiet and soothing, as he could see Jane was wondering if she had said too much, told him something that was too incriminating to take back and pretend she had been mistaken.
‘Who was it, my Lady? What is this man’s name?’
Jane looked at Cromwell as if she had never seen him before, curiosity in her gaze, then she blinked and seemed to recover herself.
‘George Rochford,’ she breathed, ‘my husband. Brother to the Queen!’
Cromwell felt all the puzzle pieces fall into place .This was the answer the King had sought. If a prince was born, then this conversation could be forgotten, attributed to the ramblings of a jealous wife and the actions of an attentive brother. But if not, and Wiltshire and the Seymour brothers still held the King in thrall then it could be a way to smooth Henry’s path again.
***
Anne’s days were spent with the court, or resting because of her pregnancy. This last was taking its toll on her, and her health was deteriorating as her stomach grew. Her eyes grew larger in her face as she became more gaunt, and she had dark shadows underneath that no amount of lemon juice, carefully applied by Mary, could move. Her skin grew sallow and her frame became thinner as the child within her took more nourishment than she did. She looked shocking and both Mary and George worried about her constantly.
Anne was resting in her chamber one cold January morning, when many of the ladies and gentlemen of the court were in the stable yard, preparing for a winter hunt. Jane Rochford sidled up to Anne, who looked at her askance. This was unusual, Anne thought. Jane always obeyed a direct request from Anne, but seldom initiated conversation. They had nothing to say to each other.
‘Your Highness, we cannot find the King,’ said Jane, in that shrill way that Anne found so grating.
‘Is he not preparing to hunt?’ Anne asked tiredly, casting aside the book she was trying to read, ‘with Suffolk and the rest of the gentlemen?’
‘No, my Lady. They are all waiting for him.’ Jane looked at Anne as if she could produce Henry from thin air. Anne sighed and got to her feet. She felt uncomfortable, unbalanced with her belly so big and the rest of her so
slight.
‘Very well. Go out and tell Suffolk I shall go to the King’s chamber and let him know he is delaying the hunt. Henry probably can’t find his gloves.’ Jane smiled her sly smile and scurried from the room, and Anne, wondering why Jane had come on this errand, walked down the little passage that connected her apartments to Henry’s without going through the formal gallery. This door was often kept locked, or used by servants to slip from the kitchens to the royal apartments with hot food to make sure it stayed hot. It was not a thoroughfare that Anne normally used, but she was tired and wanted to lie down again and rest.
She reached the connecting door quickly and turned the latch, stepping silently into the room round a dusty hanging that kept out the draught from the dank corridor. Then she stood, aghast at what she saw.
Henry, sat in his chair with Plain Jane Seymour in his lap, one hand busy up her skirt and his head buried in her flat chest where her bodice had loosened. Jane’s head was tilted back, her eyes closed and her hood almost falling off. Anne was incandescent with anger and humiliation. She strode over to the entwined couple as Jane caught sight of her angry face and tried in vain to move the King so she could pull her skirt down and her bodice up. Anne drew back her arm and slapped Jane’s cheek hard!
Henry rose in his anger, almost tipping Jane, now sobbing loudly, onto the floor.
‘How could you?’ railed Anne. ‘When the whole court must know.’ Anne now understood Jane Rochford’s sly smile, and the reason why she had been asked to find Henry and not a lowly page boy.
‘Madam,’ Henry roared, his usually loud voice even louder. Anne blinked, startled by the volume, and the thought that at least he hadn’t called her ‘sweeting’ flitted though her mind. She wanted to laugh.