Chapter 9 : Princely Pleasures
The sound of laughter and music was overwhelming.
There was so much merriment and goodwill in the air, such an atmosphere of elation and joy, one could almost grasp it.
Eustace Chapuys, ambassador to the Emperor, absorbed this spirit of jubilance as he entered the great hall at Greenwich palace, where the feast in honour of the King was taking place. Bowing from left to right, accepting greetings and returning them, he made his way through the wide circular arch that formed the entrance to the great room, and looked up in amazement at the lavish decorations in the hall itself.
There, at the back, beneath expensive tapestries, stood the great table that was reserved for the royal pair and their immediate family. It was clothed in gold fabric, laden with expansive crockery, high candles and platters of fruit and sweetmeats. Behind it, in the very middle, stood two throne-like chairs for their Majesties, who had not yet arrived.
All the other courtiers would have to find a spot at one of the other tables that had been arranged in long arrays on both sides of the extensive room. Those too were equipped with all kinds of decorative material and fine crockery.
It was a glorious sight indeed, and Chapuys marvelled at the accuracy and decadency of it all. A multitude of smells filled the air: food, perfume, people's sweat. Everyone was up and about, groups of people talking animatedly, women sticking their heads together, noble children chasing each other through the hall, men and women dancing merrily. Girlish giggling, boisterous laughter and the occasional good-natured curse could be heard.
Everyone seemed to be happy, relieved that their king had survived his dreadful accident and would soon be showing himself to his people after days of seclusion.
Even Chapuys, who was not a man of abandon and courtly distractions, took pleasure in watching all this. He was equally eager to see the king, for he had not seen his Majesty since the day of the accident. Without a doubt, the Concubine had prevented an audience, and in the tumult of the last days the Ambassador had had no chance to talk to Secretary Cromwell, who might have arranged a meeting.
Eustace found the Seymours standing under a window on the left side of the hall, talking. John Seymour and his son were elegantly dressed, and Jane, the daughter, of whom Eustace did not quite know what to make, was splendidly attired in a pale blue dress with long sleeves and silver embroidery of the highest quality. She had on simple, elegant jewellery of silver and aquamarines, and her golden hair was flowing loosely over her slender shoulders. There was an angelic quality to her, Chapuys thought, but something determined and earthy too, hidden beneath her gentle demeanour. He always sensed such things. This girl looked all fragile and sweet, but there was more to her than the eyes could see.
"What a magnificent feast," he commented, smiling amiably at the family. "And my lord Suffolk organized all this?" He spotted the duke across the hall, talking to his wife.
Edward, the least pleasant of the three, spoke up. "Indeed, it was all his doing, and it has turned out to be truly worthy of his gracious Majesty, whom we all long to see again."
Chapuys nodded, knowing that the Seymours had had an audience with his Majesty the other day. He made a mental note to find out what had happened during that meeting.
"I trust his Majesty is in good health?" he asked. "No one has seen much of him these past few days."
John Seymour nodded. "The last time we saw him, he was in excellent spirits," he said almost unwillingly. It was very unlike him.
Chapuys frowned. What was the man omitting? He had carefully avoided to say anything about the king's reaction to Jane. "I hear his Majesty's wife joined you?" he prodded, watching his opposite closely.
"Indeed," John Seymour mumbled, "she played a round of cards with my Jane here." He looked at his daughter. The girl inclined her head, unwilling to be reminded of that evening. She did not want to think about the seeming indifference the king had treated her with, all the while adoring his wife.
Ah, Chapuys thought sharply, so it did not turn out as well as you had hoped. But why was that, he wondered. Was the king, still in shock after his accident, willing to treat his wife in a cordial manner, so as not to frighten her further after his near death experience? Or – terrible thought – was he even willing to make amends?
Eustace had been sure these past few weeks that it was only a matter of time until the Concubine was cast away. If the king was to change his course now, all the Emperor's plans would be destroyed. It must not happen. The Lady Mary must be reinstated as heir, and a new queen had to be placed on the throne. Only then could a strong alliance between England and Spain be formed.
The whore Anne Boleyn stood between the Emperor and everything.
Chapuys' eyes darted around the room even as he tried to keep listening to Edward Seymour's overblown palaver. He had to humour the Seymours, whether he wanted to or not. After all, Jane was to be the new queen.
If only the Concubine was given no chance to ensnare the king once more! He was nervous now, his eagerness to see the king and his whore knew no boundaries. He had to see them in order to find out what was going on between them. And where on earth was Cromwell?
Ah, there he was, next to Charles Brandon. Eustace met the duke's eyes and bowed respectfully.
He had no idea that Brandon was wondering whether the ambassador knew of the king's loss of memory or not. Probably not. After all, Cromwell, the Queen and Charles himself had done everything in their power to keep it secret. Only the three of them, the Boleyn men, Sir Richard Rich, two of the doctors and Archbishop Cranmer knew about it, and they could be trusted not to speak of it to others. He was convinced of their secrecy, simply because he knew that if they did reveal their knowledge of the king's condition, they would pay for it. No, they would not say anything.
It was too dangerous.
Charles knew from what he had seen lately that, if his eyes served him correctly, the king was falling for Anne Boleyn again. It would be dangerous to oppose her now, as vexing a thought as it was. Prior to the accident he had had plans of destroying her, but now the thought had vanished from his mind. Perhaps in a few weeks, when the king would hopefully have recovered his memory, things would be different. But, right now, Anne was too close to Henry, had too great an influence. And apart from that, Charles had seen a new side of her that day when she hovered next to Henry in the pavilion after his accident. She had looked so… humane. So fearful and vulnerable. He hated himself for it, but he could not deny that he had seen a sight of her that touched him, touched him to the very core.
He was so lost in his reverie that the sudden sounding of trumpets startled him. He looked towards the great entrance where the king's usher raised his voice over the tumult of noises in the hall: "Arise! Arise, lords and ladies!"
Everyone who was still seated jumped up from their seats; the dancers ceased their prancing about and lined up correctly, knowing that the moment had come. The king was on his way.
A great murmur of voices arose. The air was so thick it was as if one could cut it with a knife.
Charles saw the Seymours staring in the direction of the entrance, Chapuys next to them, erect, frowning as he waited for the king's arrival. The Boleyns were on the other side of the hall, looking a lot more relaxed than their enemies; next to them Mark Sematon and Thomas Wyatt.
Footsteps could be heard outside the hall. A hush fell over the crowd.
Then, the usher's voice again, announcing solemnly: "His gracious Majesty, the King! Her Majesty, the Queen."
And in strode Henry, king of England, as handsome and vigorous as ever, albeit a little nervous, although only few beholders noticed his strain.
Richly attired in cloth of gold and manifold jewellery, it seemed to them as if he outshone every other man, like the sun outshines the silver moon. A light crown of gold was perched upon his dark head, glittering in the light of the candles in the hall. He lifted his head proudly, daring them to doubt him.
He was magnificent.
A cheer broke lose. Someone cried aloud: "God save the king! God bless your Majesty!"
Soon, a multitude of voices cried out in jubilance, exclaiming good wishes and greetings. The clapping of a thousand hands filled the hall, the rustling of skirts as ladies sank to their knees. Hats were doffed and heads bent in reverence. Smiling faces beamed with happiness and elation.
To Henry it was a mystery. He had not expected this. Such love, such devotion. He had not realized how beloved he was of the people. And all these men and women were his subjects? It was a heady thought. A shiver ran down his spine.
Thank God, they had no idea how nervous he was. He prayed they would not notice his eyes darting around, searching for familiar faces. He spotted Charles. The Boleyns. God, what did they all expect of him?
He tried hard to cover his nervousness, plastering a confident expression on his face.
But still, it was overwhelming to see all these people, knowing that most of them had no idea that he had lost his memory. They wanted to see their king, the one they had known for so long. What was he to do? They had rehearsed this moment in his chambers, but reality itself was an entirely different matter ...
Just when he was about to lose his nerves, he felt his hand being pressed firmly.
Anne.
He almost sighed with relief. His beautiful Queen. She was here with him. She would help him and guide him through all this. She was the solid rock in a world of confusion.
He turned his eyes to her, pressing her hand in return, a silent gesture of gratitude. She looked at him encouragingly, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. It was comforting to know that she believed in him and knew exactly what to do. He had come to understand that she was a trained and experienced courtier, and her advise on how he should carry himself today had been most welcome.
For a moment he just stood there rejoicing in her perfect beauty, the slender body clothed in an elegant dress of gold damask, the glittering tiara on her head. She was gorgeous... He was a lucky man.
He tore his eyes away from her unwillingly, realizing that all eyes were on him.
Clearing his throat and mustering up his courage, he looked around and said simply, as Anne had advised him: "Thank you, my loving subjects. I thank you all."
Then, looking at Anne and finding reassurance in her gaze, he led her through the throng of courtiers making way for their Majesties. Followed by Anne's ladies and Henry's grooms, they made their way to the great table and positioned themselves in front of the two chairs that had been provided for them.
Henry gulped inwardly. They were all looking at him, he could feel their eyes piercing him.
But courage flowed back to him when he felt Anne's presence next to him, and he managed a small smile. Maybe this would not be so hard after all. His subjects had welcomed him kindly, no, jubilantly! He only had to make the best of this.
The clapping and shouting ceased when he raised his hand. He had practised this and, strangely, it came almost naturally. He guessed it was still in his blood after years of living at court as king.
Breathing in deeply, he readied himself for what he was about to do. He had prepared a speech. Anne did not know its exact content, nor did Cromwell or Charles, only the main features of it.
"My true and loyal subjects," he started off, liking the ring of it. He was beginning to come to terms with this whole subject-thing.
"I have come here today to show myself to you all, and assure you of my health and happiness. It is my desire to thank you all for your kindness and patience."
Loud and boisterous clapping followed his words. He smiled warmly, truly grateful for their sympathy.
"God in His never-ending mercy," he continued, a little louder now, gaining confidence, "has preserved me from death and saved my life. I render thanks to Thee, oh Lord, that Thou hast been pleased to protect and preserve me, Thy humble servant." He closed his eyes in worship, reminding himself of how much he owed to the Almighty.
"Amen!" he heard Charles Brandon shout, and everyone else chimed in with him.
The king smiled benevolently. So much for the speech the others already knew. Now came the part that meant most to him personally.
"On this day, I also wish to thank those who have been to me not only true friends and subjects, but loyal supporters in a time of need." That was abstract enough, he figured. He was careful to avoid anything hinting at his loss of memory.
"First, I wish to thank his Grace, the duke of Suffolk," Henry went on, nodding in Charles' direction, "for being as good a friend as ever, and, of course, for arranging this beautiful festivity," he concluded, gazing in awe at the sumptuous decorations all around him.
Charles bowed low, bathing in the applause of the crowd.
"Furthermore, I wish to thank my lord Secretary Cromwell, my true servant. You have proved yourself to be more than worthy," he said honestly. Cromwell had been such a great help to him ever since the accident: a tireless worker, a trusted and intelligent advisor and sympathetic friend. "Always be assured of my love."
Cromwell humbly inclined his head, and he too received a round of applause.
Soon, though, everyone focused on the king once more, for they realized that he would now address his wife. Many had been wondering how he felt about her now. He had certainly smiled admiringly at her ever since the pair had entered the hall. But had the Queen not been losing favour in the last months?
But nothing was ever certain. As the king raised his voice once more, they strained their ears.
"And lastly," he said, turning towards Anne and taking her right hand in his, clutching it tightly and looking deep into her eyes before facing his subjects again, "I wish to thank her who has been to me the must faithful friend, the most loving companion, whose gentle kindness helped me through the time of convalescence. "
It was a bit of a shot in the dark, for he did not really know if Anne loved him in return. But she had said so in the pavilion after his accident, and her behaviour certainly told of it. One thing was for sure, he loved her. He knew that now, and it was a heady rush. So pure, so glorious a feeling.
"I render thanks to God, that He has been pleased to give me a wife so entirely conform to my inclinations as her I now have," he continued. A hush had fallen over the crowd. All eyes were fixed on him and Anne.
"I pray God save Queen Anne, for I believe with all my heart that never had a man a more gracious nor a more affectionate wife." Meeting her eyes, he saw how moved she was. It gave him such pleasure he wanted to kiss her then and there – he realized he had not kissed her properly since his accident (and he did not remember what it was like, but he thought it must be heaven). God, how he wanted her...
"Let us drink to her now," he said, raising his golden cup. He waited until everyone had raised theirs as well.
"To Anne, Queen of England! And queen of my heart," he added saucily with a cheecky little smile, and it was so much like the Henry they knew that many people laughed out loud.
But there were also astounding murmurs, faces that spoke clearly of great surprise to see Anne Boleyn thus praised. For many months now the king had not spoken of her so affectionately, and many had come to believe that her star was sinking. But now it seemed as if the tides had turned once more and Anne was back in the king's good graces.
"To Queen Anne," it echoed through the hall, and Henry, finishing his drink and putting down the goblet, took Anne's hand in his once more and kissed it.
As the royal couple sat down and the food was brought in by a multitude of servants, Eustace Chapuys turned away from the two lovers with a sour look on his face.
He had been listening to the king in bewilderment, marvelling at the Concubine who, so it seemed, in a short span of time had won back the king's affection and love. It was not be explained.
He had been so sure that his Majesty was tiring of his wife and eager to make a new marriage… And now this! A public display of love and affection. She had bewitched him once again.
Eustace could not believe it. She was a harlot, a usurper! Now, if nothing happened to prevent it, the Boleyns would rise again, higher than ever before, and the Concubine would flourish, God curse her.
But how can this be? He thought again, unwilling to simply accept things as they were. How could she have reclaimed the king's love in such a short span of time? It was preposterous!
There must be more to it, there must be.
He had to find out. He needed an audience with the king, and soon. He had to find out where his Majesty stood, had to know if everything was already lost or if there was still a chance to destroy Anne Boleyn.
Anne, glancing at her husband as the two of them ate in comfortable silence, could not believe her luck. She almost expected him to smile maliciously at her, telling her it had all been a cruel joke. But when he felt her gaze on him and looked up at her, his eyes were kind.
"I…" she began, not knowing what to say. He had basically confessed his love for her in that speech. He had called upon God to preserve her, had made it clear to all that she was his true and beloved wife.
It was unbelievable.
"What is it? Can you not tell me?" He looked intently at her. "Have I… have I made you unhappy?" Perhaps she had found his speech ridiculous? But no, she had looked so happy… almost relieved…
"No!" she exclaimed, bewildered that he would think such a thing and reminded of another day, another celebration, when he had asked her the exact same thing.
London would have to melt into the Thames first...
"It's just… " she began, searching for the right words. "Thank you. Thank you for everything." She said simply, smiling at him.
He smiled back wondering if things had occurred between them in their marriage that she was trying to hide from him. Had he ever treated her in a different manner than now? He hoped not, and he could not imagine why he should have done so. She was everything a man could ever wish for.
He ate with good appetite, all the while listening to Anne's amusing stories. She was quite the entertainer. Careful not to attract too much attention to her gestures, she motioned and pointed subtly at several courtiers and whispered in Henry's ear who they were, and whether or not they were of much importance.
"Who is that gentleman?" Henry asked, pointing at a tall older man with grey hair, richly dressed in velvets and fur. He was talking to the Seymours.
"Oh," Anne replied, carefully suppressing her aversion so as not to reveal it to Henry. "That is the Imperial ambassador of Spain, Eustace Chapuys."
Chapuys, feeling their eyes on him, turned around and bowed low, as did the Seymours when they noticed that the royal couple was looking at the man next to them.
Henry inclined his head gracefully, as did Anne, even if only to please him. She noticed with some satisfaction that Henry focused on Chapuys alone, paying no mind to Jane Seymour and her male relatives.
"I should like to talk to him later," Henry said looking at Anne, sure she would approve of it. Surely it was of utmost importance to maintain a good relationship with the ambassador of so powerful a nation as Spain? Henry had made up his mind that, no matter what had happened to him, he would strive to be a good king and make decisions that would benefit England.
Anne nodded, seeing that it was important to him. "If that is what your Majesty desires. I am sure Secretary Cromwell will arrange everything."
"Very well," Henry said gently, giving his wife a warm smile.
The feast was in full swing, with dancing and merry-making all around when, suddenly, the trumpets sounded and the usher announced the arrival of another royal guest. Henry, in a glorious mood, looked up from his and Anne's entwined hands.
"Make way! Make way for the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth!"
People craned their necks in an attempt to miss nothing of the arrival of the royal child. In she came, accompanied by Lady Bryan. Holding her pert head high, the Princess made her way through the throng of courtiers shuffling to let her by and bowing low before her.
She walked towards the great table where the king and queen, Brandon and his wife, and a few other selected nobles, such as the Boleyn men, were seated.
Anne, watching her beautiful girl, swelled with pride. Elizabeth was dressed in a luxurious gown of green and gold damask, and a tiny headdress of pearls. Her red-blonde hair was arranged in a pretty style and her eyes were glittering with excitement.
Before her royal parents, she curtsied prettily. Addressing her father first, as was custom, she chirped in her childish voice: "Votre Majesté! Comment allez-vous?"
Henry, more than happy to see his daughter again, laughed at her cute French and the coy smile on her lips.
"Je vais bien, ma petite," he replied, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome. "Et toi, ma princesse?"
"Ca va bien aussi, mon seigneur, et je demande votre bénédiction."
Henry was all astonishment. His daughter's French was excellent, and she was not yet 3 years old. What a bright little girl, he mused.
"Dieu vous bénisse, ma fille," he said amiably, and, following a spontaneous instinct, walked around the great table and towards Elizabeth. Scooping her up in his arms he pressed a smacking kiss on her smooth cheek. She giggled happily.
Dismissing Lady Bryan for the time being, Henry turned towards Anne, who was still sitting in her chair and smiling broadly, obviously pleased with her daughter's conduct. Putting Elizabeth down, in the hope of doing everything right, Henry said:
"My own daughter. May I present you to her Majesty, Queen Anne."
Elizabeth curtsied deeply. "My lady mother," she said, receiving a warm smile and respectfully inclined head in return.
The king applauded, proud of his little girl and her mother. The crowd fell in, cheering and clapping their hands.
"Continue!" Henry ordered, and the music began anew. Marvelling at how wordlessly people followed his every command, he shook his head a little, then took his daughter into his arms again in order to carry her to their places behind the table.
"My lords," Henry inclined his head to the Boleyns, who bowed low before the king and the Princess as they passed them. Elizabeth greeted her grandfather and uncle respectfully, but then struggled in Henry's arms when she spotted her mother. He put her down. Curtsying once more before the Queen, Elizabeth then strode forward to kiss her mother in such a sweet and dignified manner that Anne found herself deeply moved. Such a perfect little being! Symbol of her and Henry's love. It was such a blessing to call Elizabeth their daughter.
The child took her place next to her mother, where a high chair loaded with seat cushions and pillows had been reserved for the Princess.
After she had been settled and served, Elizabeth ate heartily and entertained her mother and father with her cute stories. The child obviously rejoiced in being so close to her royal parents, and took pleasure in watching the dancing and gaiety all around her.
When she had finished eating, her uncle George Boleyn asked for a dance with the Princess, and the two of them strode onto the dance floor. Another courtier, whom Henry knew to be Mark Smeaton, a musician and friend of Anne's, asked the Queen for a dance, and Anne, turning to her husband for permission, swept him an elegant curtsy when Henry waved her away good-naturedly.
The musicians intoned a cheerful melody, and soon the hall was awash with couples swaying back and forth to the jolly rhythm.
Henry laughed outright at the picture his daughter and George Boleyn made, the tall man graceful with every step, the Princess swirling around with her skirts flowing.
His eyes wandered, and, even as he kept talking to Charles, who sat next to him, he watched with great interest as his courtiers danced and celebrated. It was like a cosmos - every planet moved freely but was bound to unwritten and universal rules, so that everything worked out according to plan.
It was when Mark Smeaton led the Queen to the dance floor that Henry's eyes ceased their wandering and focused on Anne alone.
When Smeaton bowed, she curtsied, a seductive smile on her lips. A new dance began, and from the moment Anne made her first step, Henry was spellbound.
She moved with such grace and refinement, he was sure she must be walking on air. Swirling and turning in Smeaton's arms, she laughed out loud, a laugh that went straight to Henry's yearning heart.
He could not take his eyes off of her. In fascination he watched the slim body spin around and the dark curls fly as she made a little skip, watched her lips move as she said something to her partner that made him laugh.
He did not realize that he was staring at his Queen, a smile of rapture setting his face aglow. People shook their heads. It was like the old days, when Anne Boleyn had driven the king mad with desire.
But even if Henry had known they were wondering at his behaviour, he would not have cared. Anne was so beautiful, surely it was every man's duty to honour and worship her...
With dismay he realized that the song was slowly coming to an end. He could have watched her dance forever and ever.
Mark let go of the Queen's hand and danced around her in a circular motion, then moved sideward as did all the other men, in order to allow the ladies to perform the final part of the dance which consisted of a single spin, a sequence of small steps, and, finally, the raising of one's right arm over the head and holding it that way in an elegant arch.
Henry drank in Anne's movements, beholding in awe her elegant pose, missing absolutely nothing, from her delicate feet in elegant slippers to the folds of her luxurious dress and her glimmering jewels, the exuberant smile on her face and her sparkling eyes.
The hall erupted into a loud round of applause, and Henry, shaking himself out of his reverie, applauded enthusiastically.
Meeting his eyes Anne dropped a curtsy and remained in that position, which he took as an invitation to join her for the next dance. Instinctively, he did not fear the encounter, for he knew in his heart that he must have danced with her a hundred times before, and with pleasure.
Rising from his chair he walked over to her. He took her hand and raised her from her kneeling position. Her touch was electrifying, and he had to muster up all his strength not to tremble with desire. They looked into each other's eyes, losing themselves in the intensity of the moment.
He did not know why, but suddenly he heard himself cry: "Play a Volta!"
Anne smiled smoulderingly.
As the music began, the world fell away, leaving only the two of them behind, or so it seemed. In perfect unison they moved about the floor, paying no mind to the people watching them.
They did not see Chapuys' sour expression, Edward Seymour's disappointed face or Catherine Brandon's enmity. They knew nothing of Cromwell's blank countenance, nor did they notice their own daughter 's excited giggling.
There was nothing there, only the two of them, lost in each other.
Pleasure rippled through Henry's every nerve every time their hands touched or Anne laid a hand on his shoulder. Whenever the dance permitted, he would press her as close to himself as possible, breathing in the scent of her. And she did not reject him. Quite the contrary, it seemed as if she craved his touch, wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He lifted her up from the ground and into his arms, swirling her through the air. Her hand was on his cheek, caressing him. The touch of her skin drove him mad.
He sat her down reluctantly and watched with passion-glazed eyes as she danced around him. It was as if he had seen this before, the two of them dancing a Volta. The desire he felt was so familiar, so all-consuming.
When she stood before him again, she halted for a fleeting second, then ran quickly towards him. Henry snaked his arms around her hips and lifted her up once more, holding her tightly. She bent backwards in his arms as he twirled her around, allowing him a good view of her breasts and her elegant neck. He stared at her décolleté, panting heavily from the exercise, the sight of her, his lust.
Finally, when she was back on her feet, they grabbed each others hands and performed the last steps of the dance before Henry released her. Anne sank into a deep curtsy, looking up at him with piercing eyes.
Mesmerized, he bowed, still staring at Anne when the crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
With all the dignity he could muster, Henry offered his arm to his wife and led her from the dance floor.
Jane felt her brother's glare on her and flinched, sensing his displeasure.
She did not dare look at him, knowing what she would read in his eyes: Did you see that? The king's passion, the way he looked at the Queen? You should have been the one dancing with him, the object of his desire! What have you done to lose his favour?
Thank God her father was not looking at her, instead concentrating on the king and queen who were now talking amiably to their courtiers, one of them Secretary Cromwell.
Jane sighed inaudibly. She did not want anyone to look at her. In fact, she desired nothing more than to be alone right now.
Looking around, though, she realized that this was not the time to make an unobtrusive exit. She noticed with great dismay that not only her brother was looking at her. People were staring, she could feel their eyes boring into her skin. It was humiliating.
Plastering a smile onto her face, she tried hard to ignore their stares. Unfortunately there was no one she could turn to for conversation or diversion. Her brother was now in deep conversation with their father, and Chapuys, who had been talking to them, stood in front of the great table, where Cromwell presented him to the king.
Jane's eyes darted wildly about the room, but no one made a move towards her.
She was alone.
Holding back tears, she looked at the king, hoping against all reason that he would come to her or at least acknowledge her from afar. But he didn't. He was engaged in a lively conversation with the Ambassador, all the while holding the Queen's hand in his own.
Jane gulped. She did not know why and did not welcome the feeling, but it hurt. It hurt to see him pay so much respect to his wife and treat her with such love and devotion when until recently he had sworn to her, Jane, that he loved and admired her. That he needed her. And, worst of all, she did not have the slightest idea how this sudden change had come about.
Before his accident, the king had treated her with such kindness and affection, calling her his Guinevere and speaking highly of her character. He had even praised her beauty.
At first his interest simply flattered her, for he was a charming man, and to have so handsome and powerful person at her feet was a heady rush. She bathed in his praise and delighted in the compliments he paid her. Surely that was no sin in itself? After all, she had done nothing at all to encourage him.
Then, when her father and brother suggested that she should be Queen instead of Anne Boleyn, her perspective changed. It was no longer a game, it was getting serious. She knew what her family expected of her and it was frightening. Deep inside her, a voice urged her not to give in to this folly, reminding her that she could never truly belong to the king. He did not know all her secrets. He had not the slightest idea that she did not truly love him, nor would ever do so. Not even her brother and father knew what was going on inside her, naively assuming that she was in love with the king.
But, God have mercy on her, she was not. The king thought of her as pure and innocent, when in truth she was in love with another man, and always would be.
It was because of that man's rejection that she had first considered giving in to her family's wishes and the king's growing affection. Hurt and bewildered, not knowing how to live without her beloved, his Majesty's approach had presented a welcome diversion from her present pain.
She had thrown herself head over heals into the romance, trying to forget her misery. Also, if she wanted to be honest with herself, she had taken a fancy to the king's smouldering eyes, his amiable conduct and the sweetness of his speech. It was balm to her wounds, knowing that here was a man who loved her boundlessly, when the one she truly wanted would not - or could not - find a way to be with her truly, as man and wife.
But there's another reason, a voice inside her head chided her.
This, she thought bitterly as her eyes surveyed the room, taking in her surroundings.
All of this.
The glitter and the glamour, the pomp and celebration. The tiara on the Queen's head, the admiration of the courtiers. She had wanted all of this to be hers. Somehow, the prospect of becoming Queen of England had enraptured her so much she had not cared that, in order to make it come true, she would have to supplant another woman. The thought alone of abundant riches, a life in luxury by the king's side, had extinguished all scruples and doubts she might have had. And also, perhaps even more importantly, there was in her the desire of a lonely young woman to amount to something in this fickle world, to achieve a higher goal than average women, to be remembered. And what position offered better chances to earn great renown than that of a queen?
Yes, her broken heart, her fancy for the king's flattery, and her desire to live a life of grandeur had brought her to this - and to what avail?
As she watched the king she wanted to scream at him: Why? Why the sudden change? You were my only hope for salvation…
It seemed as if all was lost now, as if there was no longer a chance to win him over. Jane had watched him dance with the Queen in awkward fascination. He had looked at Anne as if there had never been any other woman to tempt him. And it was understandable, was it not? How could she, meek and pale Jane, have hoped to outshine the likes of Anne Boleyn? It would have given her great pleasure to overthrow that woman, the destroyer of Katherine of Aragon, but it was not to be. As annoying a thought it was, it seemed as if the Boleyn whore was back in the king's good and kind graces, and the thought of opposing her when she had the king's love was nothing but frightening.
And yet, it was so strange. All of sudden the king was in love again? Jane had been so sure that he was tiring of his wife, that he wanted a new beginning. It had been her wish, too, to start again and begin a new life. Together they could have made it work. He desirous to be reborn, she herself trying to forget the tragic love that was threatening to drive her into madness.
But alas! Perhaps it was not to be.
Nevertheless, she thought, looking suspiciously at the royal couple, I shall find out what made him forget me so soon.
After his conversation with the king, Chapuys was none the wiser.
Cromwell had presented him to his Majesty and not left his side at all through the entire conversation, which had greatly disturbed the ambassador. He hated it when people interfered, especially people as powerful as Cromwell.
He had been so desirous to talk to the king that, when his Majesty himself expressed the wish to talk to him, he was more than pleased. But, during the entire conversation, neither Cromwell nor the Concubine gave him any chance to delve further into the king's mind, and the almost sickening amount of attention the king paid to the harlot next to him, never letting go of her hand, assured Chapuys of a truth he was completely unwilling to acknowledge: that the whore had indeed bewitched the king once more and regained his favour.
No, he had not found out what he had intended – that it was all just a show, that the king was still willing to rid himself of his so-called wife. The only truly remarkable thing Eustace had perceived was that the king seemed almost strangely amiable. He spoke with such a goodly smiling countenance, such respect and friendliness, he was almost unrecognisable.
True, he had been generous and kind before, on occasion. But never like this, so at ease, so entirely benevolent in his conduct.
He had enquired after the Emperor's health and asked animated questions concerning the Spanish realm. Chapuys, aghast at the sight of this new Henry VIII, did his best to answer the king's questions to his best ability, all the while wondering what had happened in the short days after the accident at the tournament.
Only a few people had gotten to see anything of the king at all, and on the information circulating at court one could not rely, for it was mostly idle gossip. So, he had had no chance to see for himself what was happening, and had instead busied himself writing letters to the Emperor and the Lady Mary, reporting the events of the accident and ifs aftermath to them.
By now, Chapuys was convinced that the accident itself, or the days that after it, had led to a change in Henry VIII that might as well have a great impact on the future. Something had changed, he just did not know what it was. Not yet. There must be an explanation for the king's excellent spirits and his renewed affection for the Concubine, there must be!
Meeting Cromwell's eyes as he walked away from the royal couple after a formal bow, he made a mental note to see the Secretary in private as soon as possible. Perhaps, when the excitements of this feast were over, in the sober light of day, he would be able to find out more.
That night, long after the candles in the great hall had been extinguished, Anne shot up in bed when she heard the noise of footsteps on the wooden floor of her bedroom.
Panting heavily, she peered into the darkness. A shiver ran down her spine when she spotted a figure next to the door. Where were her ladies? Why had they not warned her?
"Who… who's there?" she asked warily, unsure what to do. Cold sweat of fear was running down her back.
Suddenly the figure stepped forward. Anne led out a small shriek and closed her eyes on impulse, expecting the intruder to attack, but nothing happened.
When she opened her eyes again, she gasped in surprise.
Him.
He looked at her, his face but faintly illuminated by the light of the half-moon shining through the windows. She stared back.
The sapphire of his orbs did strange things to her. She leaned forward almost against her will, the blanket falling from her body, revealing her flimsy nightgown.
As if encouraged by her movement, he took a step forward. His eyes pierced through her and she shivered in anticipation. Before she knew why, she was holding out her hand to him, wanting to feel his touch, needing him.
When his hand made contact with hers, fire spread through her body.
Her head fell back as his fingers wandered along her arm to her shoulders. He caressed her neck, her face, slid his fingers along her moist lips that had parted in pleasure. She heard him breathe deeply, felt his hand tremble. A moan escaped her mouth when he touched her breasts, stroking them softly through the fabric of her nightgown.
"Anne…" he whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and lowering his face to hers, and the unmistakable passion in is eyes was her undoing.
Their lips met in a scorching kiss, so great was their mutual need.
All of Anne's love for him, the desire that had been suppressed for so long, flowed into that kiss like balm into a wound, arousing her senses, soothing her mind, healing her soul.
The lust that cursed through her veins at the feeling of his tongue dancing with hers was like poison, but she welcomed its effects. Her skin tingled with pleasure, she trembled in every limb as Henry's hands raked over her body, ravishing her. This was how it was supposed to be, the two of them in a heated embrace, worshipping each other's bodies.
His rough skin on hers set her afire, the beauty of his body was intoxicating. She revelled in the taste of him, the fullness of his lips.
When they became one in the darkness, a glorious feeling of redemption engulfed her. She moaned his name, losing herself completely. Her body was on fire, burning, burning…
In his arms she was herself again, void of all fear, purely Anne. He was her tormentor, her saviour, the very ecstasy consuming her.
He was the beginning and the end of this world, and she could not get enough.