The Secret: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Tudor Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Her virginity! Anne crept quietly from the bed and went to the side table where Lady Lisle had left wine, ale and fruit for the King’s refreshment. And a sharp paring knife. Anne considered the knife carefully, thinking through what she had to do. Henry had been so inebriated that he hadn’t taken her slowly, but had just sought his own pleasure, although she felt sure that the thought would occur to him today. She made a long shallow cut to her left hand and watched the blood well up. Quickly she went across to the bed and let some of the blood drip onto the sheet, where her hips would have been. Then she washed the blood from her hand in the ewer basin on the washstand and returned to the bed.

  When Henry awoke, there would be evidence of her maidenhead on the linens, which would put his mind at ease, especially after the fiasco of Queen Katharine’s disputed virginity with Henry. Should there be any consequences from her night of passion with George, Henry could not doubt that the child was his. The cut on her hand would not be noticed by anyone, as it was her left hand she always kept hidden in her famous sleeves. Henry always took her right hand to kiss or fondle. She sighed, thinking about the life ahead of her, being kissed and fondled by Henry alone, then she put it out of her mind as a scratching came at the door.

  ‘Anne! Anne!’ whispered Mary urgently, ‘you must return to your own chambers before the King is woken by his attendants.’

  Anne donned Henry’s robe, which swamped her tiny frame, and opened the door a crack. Mary was standing with Anne’s own nightgown and robe in her arms, which she thrust towards Anne.

  ‘Quickly, put these on and then come with me. I’ll bring your gown and hood from last night.’ Mary slipped past Anne and began picking up the bejewelled garments as Anne put on her own shift and robe, then crept with Mary along the corridor to her own rooms. When Henry saw her today, she wanted to be as beautiful to him as she had been last night. She couldn’t let a moment’s impetuosity ruin her plans for marriage. Monseigneur would not accept failure, nor would he accept yet another Boleyn daughter as a King’s mistress. The King’s wife would be the only acceptable outcome – and the King’s wife was the Queen!

  Mary’s eyes slid carefully across Anne’s slender body as she helped her dress in yet another new gown, this one black brocade with an under gown of red shot through with gold threads. The gown and matching hood were trimmed with pearls, and Anne’s over-sleeves were white fur.

  ‘Well, sister,’ began Mary, ‘how was it?’

  Anne swallowed hard, stifling a sigh, then turned her lips upwards and feigned a smile ‘It was well enough, I imagine. I have nothing to compare it with, sister, so I don’t really know how to answer. The King seemed …. content.’ She avoided her sister’s knowing eyes.

  Mary walked behind Anne to place the hood properly and arrange Anne’s hair beneath the veil. ‘He was always quick, although sometimes he could be a bit rough in his haste,’ she stated matter-of-factly. ‘It was never much of a hardship, and he was always so grateful afterwards.’ Mary began to giggle at the memory. ‘I hope he will show his gratitude to you quickly, sister, because Monseigneur won’t countenance you becoming another Bessie Blount!’

  Anne trembled at the thought, and remembered that Bessie Blount, now Lady Taillebois, had enjoyed the King’s favour for a time, before Mary had been his mistress. She had borne him a healthy son, whom Henry had recognised and declared the Duke of Richmond, but then he had married her off quickly to another compliant nobleman, as he had Mary. Anne swore to herself that it wouldn’t happen to her.

  Just as Anne was declared dressed and ready by her ladies, there was a sudden loud commotion in the corridor outside and Henry burst into the room. He crossed the room in a few strides and gathered Anne to his chest, kissing her passionately in front of everyone in the room and in the corridor outside.

  ‘Sweeting, how lovely you look,’ he firmly kissed her again, and as he let her go, Anne wondered if her legs would support her, they trembled so. Henry took her right hand in his and kissed her fingers, whispering as he did so, ‘The maids have taken the linens, sweetheart, but not before I saw with my own eyes that you have come to me a pure maid. I have sent Cromwell to bring Cranmer to us quickly. I cannot wait any longer to make you mine.’

  Anne gasped. She knew Thomas Cranmer had been declared by Henry as the Archbishop of Canterbury, the highest cleric in the land. But surely they would have to wait for the Pope to declare Henry’s marriage to Katharine invalid. She kept hold of Henry’s hand, and made him bend to hear her whispered reply.

  ‘My Lord, surely things cannot be arranged this quickly? We await the pleasure of the Pope, do we not?’ She surprised herself with how steady her voice was.

  ‘The Bishop of Rome cannot dictate to the King of England any longer,’ declared Henry, voice getting louder with each word. ‘I am the head of the English church, and as such, declare my previous marriage as no marriage! My marriage to you will be my first, and it will take place tonight, in Calais.’

  Everyone within earshot gasped at Henry’s plan. They all knew he was determined to be head of the Church, and Thomas Cromwell had been working tirelessly to make the King’s wish a reality. But none of them had expected him to marry Anne before his marriage to Katharine had been properly dissolved by the Pope. No-one would have the audacity to ignore the Pope, but Henry was determined, and Henry was the King.

  Later that night, with only Lord and Lady Lisle as witnesses, Archbishop Cranmer married Henry and Anne. Cranmer was so nervous that his voice trembled constantly and he could hardly be heard as he recited the marriage service and chanted the prayers, but Henry and Anne made the appropriate responses and in no time at all, were man and wife.

  Henry enveloped Anne in a tight embrace. ‘We shall take Thomas’s advice about when to announce our marriage, sweeting. And when the best time would be to have you crowned Queen. But you are mine at last!’ and he kissed her hard on the mouth. Anne smiled her thanks at Lord and Lady Lisle, and tried to blink back the tears that threatened to fall.

  Chapter 14 - 1533

  nne sat on the window-seat in the newly refurbished royal apartments and gazed out as the sun began to set, streaking the dirty water of the River Thames with hues of vermillion and orange. She had no eyes for the sumptuous furnishings, and the newly painted ceiling, with its entwined H and A in each corner, in honour of hers and Henry’s union, and she sighed as she looked out at the fast flowing river.

  She was spending the night before her coronation alone in the Tower of London, as royal tradition dictated. Her maids had prepared her for bed, with a fine lawn night shift and a cream brocade robe, edged with gold thread and newly embroidered with her cipher of the phoenix. The pages had just been in to light the candles in the wall sconces, and now she was expected to spend the night in solitary prayer and silent contemplation of the day ahead. Anne leaned her head on the stonework of the window embrasure and let her mind drift back to the day after her wedding, four long months ago now.

  Henry had been closeted all day with Cromwell, Cranmer, her father, Norfolk and all the other important members of the council, deciding how and when they were going to announce the King’s divorce and his new marriage. All the maids and gentlemen were packing the chests to return home from Calais. The festivities were at an end, and the whole court needed to set sail for England on the evening tide. Anne had decided to go for a walk in the castle gardens to clear her head and contemplate her future as Henry’s wife.

  She had only been in the garden for a few minutes when George found her. He grasped her hand and drew her into a small copse of tall larch trees. A stone bench was set at the back of the copse, completely hidden on three sides, and the other side guarded by overgrown rose bushes and brambles almost as thick as Anne’s wrist. George, still wearing his leather riding gloves, swept the bramble curta
in aside to let Anne pass, unhooking the edge of her gown as it caught on the sharp thorns, then letting the brambles drop to hide them completely.

  Anne sat down on the stone seat and George sat beside her, removing his gloves and stroking her cheek gently. ‘How goes it, sister?’ he asked softly, his breath ghosting over her skin. Anne’s eyes filled with quick tears and she shivered.

  ‘Poor Cranmer could hardly speak the words of the marriage service, he was so nervous,’ Anne smiled, ‘afraid he would be struck down by God’s wrath and spend an eternity in hell, no doubt, marrying the King to me before the Pope granted the divorce.’ Anne shrugged. ‘Henry has announced himself as Supreme Head of the Church in England, so we apparently no longer need the Pope’s permission. Henry has declared his marriage to Katharine invalid, and I am his new wife and soon to be his Queen.’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant, and you know it. How goes it – with him?’ George couldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘Mary will tell you how it is quite easily. You should ask her.’

  George took her hand in his and turned it over in his palm. As he looked down, he saw bruises round her wrist and the long cut just beside her little finger. His breath caught in his throat and he looked Anne directly in the eye.

  ‘Is this how it is? Cuts and bruises and you’ve only been married a day?’ George groaned and shook his head, despairing that Anne should have to face such a dismal future.

  ‘No, brother, it is not. The bruise is because my skin is thin at my wrist and Henry doesn’t know his own strength. He comes at me like – like - I’m a target in the tilt-yard, but he isn’t meaning to be unkind. I hadn’t noticed the bruise until you mentioned it, so he can’t have really hurt me. The cut I did myself.’

  George looked back at her from his examination of her fingers, surprise on his face, ‘Yourself?’

  ‘I needed proof of my virginity to be on the linens, George. I can’t let him suspect anything. It seemed the easiest way.’ She shrugged and watched him entwine his fingers with hers with a fascination she had never experienced before. They were intertwined, themselves and their lives, before this and afterwards too. For always. She shivered again.

  ‘Are you cold, my love?’ George whispered. ‘Allow me to warm you.’ He dropped her hand then took her in his arms, kissing her along her jaw before she turned her head and found his lips with her own.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ George kissed her tenderly and stroked her face. Anne smiled beneath his kiss and entwined their fingers once more.

  ‘Yes, George. Your love. And you are mine. But when we return to court, we will have to be very careful that no-one learns our secret. Meetings alone between us will be rare, and we may have to make the most of every opportunity for privacy we have.’

  ‘I know,’ his face twisted in sorrow, ‘and Jane will be there, spying on you, railing at me for not being the loving husband she thinks she deserves, giving her a baby every year. And over and above all that, you will be beside the King as his Queen. You will belong to Henry and to England.’ His green eyes were awash with unshed tears.

  ‘I may be beside Henry as his Queen,’ said Anne flatly. She turned and took George’s hand in hers, running it along the side of her face, then pressing a kiss into the palm. ‘But I will only ever belong to you.’

  Anne started from her reverie as a gentle knock came on the door of the royal apartment. The sun had set completely now, and it had grown quite dark outside while she was lost in her memories. She wondered who could be knocking at this time. It wasn’t particularly late, but she was supposed to spend the night alone, praying and communing with God.

  She went swiftly to the door as the knock came again. ‘Who is there?’ she asked softly. If it had been Mary or Madge or any of her other servants, they would have entered after the first perfunctory knock, to bring food or wine or whatever else they thought she might need on the night before her coronation. Henry, not allowed to see her this night, would not have knocked at all, she thought. She opened the door just a crack and peeked out.

  George!

  Who else would come to her?

  Who else would dare?

  George entered quickly and closed the door behind him, then dropped the locking bar into place in the brackets either side of the great wooden door. The Tower had many sumptuous apartments, but it was still a fortress, and the doors did not have the usual locks, just the original bars and brackets from when it was built over 500 years before.

  ‘I had to come, my love.’ George took her in his arms. ‘I may not see you alone for a long time, perhaps never again,’ his voice began to thicken, ‘I need to make memories to last my lifetime.’

  Tears sprang unbidden to Anne’s eyes, and she kissed him warmly and deeply. ‘Let us make enough memories to last both our lifetimes then.’ She led him towards the bed and began to remove his boots. ‘But you must leave before dawn.’

  ‘We have hours before dawn, my love. We will not waste one minute.’ He stood up, tall and young and powerful and began to unlace his doublet. Anne swept his hands aside.

  ‘Let me,’ she whispered, ‘undressing you is a memory I will want to keep.’ George closed his eyes and swallowed hard, enveloped in her scent of lavender. They both had plans to make many memories this night.

  Chapter 15 - 1533

  nne sat in her litter and gazed about at the people of London lining the streets to see her go to her coronation. They snatched their hats off their heads, and the women curtsied, but it was at the behest of the soldiers accompanying her parade towards Westminster Abbey from the Tower. The populace didn’t shout her praises until coins were thrown, and the cheers soon died away. She could hear some of them bless Katharine instead of her, muttering about the King discarding his one true wife for his Concubine.

  Anne’s right hand waved to the crowd, whether they cheered her or not, while her left gently rubbed her swelling belly. Her ladies had laced her tightly into her stomacher, but Mary, lovely Mary, had seen how uncomfortable she was. Mary had let out her bodice sides with a few quick snips, after making sure her bodice was covered by her mantle, made from gold tissue. Then she had arranged her hair, uncovered except for a thin gold circlet which would be replaced by a crown in a few hours’ time.

  Anne’s cheeks flamed as she remembered George stroking her distended belly last night, kissing his way up her body after giving her the most delightful, powerful, shocking climax she had ever experienced, using only his lips, tongue and fingers. She had never realised ……!

  ‘Is the babe mine, my love?’ he asked softly, kissing her swollen stomach and holding her dark eyes with his green ones as he crawled up towards her.

  ‘How can I know?’ she answered gently. ‘It could well be yours. Why do you think I submitted to Henry so soon after? We could have no consequences from our encounter to shame us. Shame ME!’

  ‘You talk of consequences, of submission. You don’t speak of love.’ He kissed her slowly, and she tasted herself on his mouth.

  ‘If the babe is yours, George, you know it was conceived in love. If not, I will still love it – it is mine, after all, and still as much a part of me as you are.’ He kissed her neck, her shoulder and moved down to her breasts, becoming fuller now as her pregnancy progressed. He worshipped their burgeoning fullness with his mouth, sucking and nipping gently until she began to groan.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he moaned quietly as she took him in her hand and guided him between her thighs. Tonight she wanted all of him, in any way she could have him. They moved together slowly, to stoke their passion ever higher.

  ‘Your Highness, the Abbey,’ the Master of the Horse broke into her daydream, and Anne realised they were almost at the place where she would climb down from the litter and walk
up the Abbey steps, towards Cranmer and the crown. Henry, she knew, would be watching from behind a screen in the gallery. It was not protocol for the King to take part in the coronation of the Queen, but he would see her at the celebration afterwards.

  George, as part of the King’s household, was a member of her mounted escort and as such he offered his hand as she alighted. She took it and smiled her thanks absently, already looking towards the vast vault of the cathedral in front of her, almost overwhelmed by the solemnity of the occasion. George pressed her fingers with his own, to give her courage and his support, then left her to make the long walk to the high altar alone, as was the custom. Anne took a deep breath, lifted her head and stepped forward.

  As Archbishop Cranmer intoned the service, interminable in the Latin words, chants from the choir, hymns and incense, Anne’s mind drifted back to the previous night’s lovemaking.

  George had stayed with her until the 4 a.m. bell tolled to summon the clergy to the first prayers of the day. They had not slept at all, they had loved and talked and loved again, trying to cram into those few hours enough passion to last them through the next few weeks. They had no idea when, or indeed if, they would ever have the chance to know each other like this again.

  ‘Shall we burn for this, George?’ Anne’s whisper was quiet in the darkness of the chamber. He squeezed her to him gently and gave a low chuckle.

  ‘I doubt we would burn, my love. Banishment, perhaps. Queens have been banished before for taking a lover. Henry II locked Eleanor in a tower, Edward II banished Isabella to France, and Guinevere was sent to a nunnery.’ Anne could hear the smile in his voice at this last. She sighed.

  ‘They were foreign princesses, George. They had armies to fight for them. I have no army.’

  ‘You have me,’ he whispered urgently, bending his head and kissing her hair, ‘and if you are made to take Holy Orders, then I shall become a monk, and we shall be together in sanctity and prayer, just like Lancelot and Guinevere.’