This only occurred to me after I submitted the last chapter; I can't believe, for all the begging I've done, I haven't once thanked you all for the reviews. You have no idea how much they mean and what delight I get when I see the notification email. So thank you; thank you for your support, your encouragement, and your patience. Anyway! On to number 5...
"Anne!" George called for his sister. The King had sent another messenger to Hever with a letter for Anne Boleyn. Like a schoolgirl Anne skipped to her brother's side, her delight clear to all, totally unconcerned that she was still in her nightdress and robe. She playfully snatched the parchment from George's hand with a smile and scampered back to her chamber before her father could take the precious letter from her. She closed the door behind her and threw herself onto her bed feeling decidedly giddy. As she ran her fingers over the wax seal she wondered how Henry had written this; maybe he had laboured for hours, restlessly trying to conjure words adequate for wooing, or perhaps it had all come to him in an abrupt flurry of vision... or worse that he wrote this off the backside of one of the Queens' ladies. Anne batted the last thought from her mind knowing he was enamoured with her and with intrepid hands broke the seal. She paused on his lettering; she loved how his words looked even without reading them, the way the O circled and flick away from each word.
"My dearest Anne, perhaps you don't understand. That I can't sleep, I can hardly breathe, for thinking of you. Your image is before my eyes every waking second. I almost believe that I would sacrifice my kingdom for an hour in your arms...
Anne was so engrossed in the letter she did not notice her father slip silently into the room.
... I beg you, name some place that we can meet, and when, and I can show you truly an affection which is beyond a common affection" She looked at the signature, "Written with the hand of your servant, H. Rex" A smile spread itself across her lips and the cosy warm feel of utter contentment washed over her. She tucked the letter inside her bodice but noise made her look up. Her father moved forward swiftly, his hand outstretched. Anne had no choice but to surrender the letter. Quickly he scanned it, and then he looked at his daughter with obvious satisfaction.
"Now he is 'your servant'. With some subtle care, and the lure of your flesh he may become something even closer." he kissed her on the head and walked out with her letter. Anne sighed and the smile faded from her face. A sweet misery engulfed her. She had not expected to feel like this, not at all.
.
For days Anne sat at her desk with quill in hand and plenty of parchment but no words came to her. Several times she began a sentiment then quickly crushed the page in her hand upon realising losing her concentration. In frustration she flung her pen down with a splattering of ink over another page. The more she thought the more irritated she became, she had the sharpest wit of any woman this side of the Chanel but here she found herself wordless. To the side of her work lay a small silver portrait of Anne which she intended to send to Henry. Distracted, she took it up and opened it; Anne wasn't entirely sure she liked the picture and she so wanted to impress the King. The night at court where she had held the King's gaze throughout the night fixed itself in her mind and she succumbed to a smile. If it hadn't have been for his kingship and public decency, Anne believed the King would have gathered her into his arms there and then. However, the vision was rudely interrupted. Sir Thomas Boleyn burst through her chamber door startling Anne.
"Is it not custom to knock before entering a ladies' room?" Anne bit back a shout. In any normal situation such a remark would earn her harsh reprimand or even a strike should her father be in a foul mood, however, now was not such a case.
"I have news from London; just this week the King was taken ill after an accident while hunting, thankfully he is much recovered, however, the event has brought his desire for an heir to a forefront. But that is not all..." Thomas Boleyn called for his son to join them. As George entered the room their father stepped forward to his child and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, "His Majesty has decided to elevate me to the peerage as Lord Rochford." Boleyn's smirk widened into a Cheshire grin while George was dumbstruck. "And it is all thanks to you, my brilliant daughter." With an approving pat Boleyn strode out of his daughter's room. "Who knows George; now that his Majesty's sister is a widow perhaps you'll be as fortunate as your sister." The news of the Princess Margaret jerked Anne from her daze and pleasant tightness grabbed her. For Margaret to be widow then she must have arrived in Portugal and is now homeward bound. Charles.
Days waned and nights passed slower than Anne wished. The King's letters were left unanswered and packages of valuable gifts piled in Anne's room as she stood idly by while her father prepared for his appointment. As a clothier measured George's height for his Robes of State, Anne found her mind wandering to a most welcomed distraction; Is Charles taller than George? I wonder if he has grown very brown in Portugal. They must have been at sea for at least two weeks now. Why has there been no news? What if something has happened to their ship? Perhaps caught in a storm or boarded by pirates...
That is how her mind preoccupied most of its time until the day the carriages were lined outside the house awaiting to take the rising family back to London. Anne was dressed in a fine white and black dress so that she may impress all and any even as she clambered out of a coach. However, as she descended the stairs that morning she could already feel herself turning green at the prospect of another, long, jostling, carriage ride.
.
Although unable to attend the naming ceremony, as typical of protocol, the greatest news of the day did not fail to reach Anne's ears. The doors to the Queen's chambers were flung open by none other than the Queen in an uncharacteristic moment of rage. Her ladies leapt to their feet and ducked a curtsey as Katherine paced the room muttering to herself in Spanish, though the words were unknown to Anne their meaning was clear.
"Hijo bastardo de puta! How dare he? That fraud Cardinal thinks he can place that bastard child above her, above my daughter! Espero que se pundra en el Infierno!"
The Queen's mood did not improve. The slightest mishap sent her into a fury, she even sent a young servant scuttling back to the kitchens in tears after accidently knocking the Queen's goblet over. Wherever Catherine went her abhorrence of the Cardinal weighted the air of a room like smoke and set the nerves of all around her, her ladies not daring to speak for fear they may provoke the Queen.
Katherine sat rigidly still in her bath moving only to lift her arms that her maids might roll back her bath-shirt to wash her arms. All was silent save for the lapping of the warm water.
"Mistress Boleyn," The Queen unexpectedly addressed Anne, "It is good to have you in my services once again, and I hope you will not have to run away this time. Forgive me if I have made your first days back at court unpleasant." With an elegant wave of her hand Katherine dismissed the other attendants. There was a moment of silence as the Queen reflected on her thoughts but finally she spoke again.
"You know something Mistress Boleyn, sometimes I think to be Queen is the loneliest existence in all the world... or to be Queen of England it seems so." She gave a little bemused laugh. "The King's bastard is made both Earl and Duke in a single day whiles my daughter, the true and rightful heir to the throne, has nothing."
"Your Majesty is forgetting her engagement to the Emperor." Anne added, taking the Queen's hair in hand and wetting it.
"No, I am betrayed by my nephew. He has married his other cousin, Isabella of Portugal." Katherine let out a long sigh of contemplated sorrow. Unexpectedly her face brightened as she banished her sadness, "But Lady Anne you must be excited, now that his Majesty's sister is returning and Mr. Brandon also." Anne smiled and her heart kick started with butterflies, she would not even try to hide her happiness at his return. She massaged a brown mixture of henna, indigo and lemon pulp to the Queen's scalp, the dying of her Majesty's hair had become a more frequent practice since she had noticed her dark Mediterranean locks begin to grey at the temples.
"Thank you Lady Anne," The Queen dismissed her to wait while the blend would need to sit for an hour or more. Anne backed away from the tub and bowed her head. She departed in sombre spirits, though the mention of her Gentleness' return the Queen's former words had struck Anne. To be Queen, or at the very least Queen to Henry, was a lost and friendless title. To be so easily abandoned by your husband and unable to trust those closest to you for fear of treachery, could a crown truly be worth such unhappiness? The notion troubled Anne, not only was this an echo of what may become of her, another King's mistress discarded as easily as his aging Queen, but Anne was fuelling Katherine's sorrow, another courtier deceiving the Queen so she might seduce her King.
The following morning the Queen closed herself away in her private chapel and Anne sat absentmindedly thumbing through her copy of Le Morte d'Arthur when Mary Scrope, another lady-in-waiting to Queen Katherine, disturbed her reading. Mary wore a smile like a schoolgirl discovering a secret. Anne did not look up from her book for some time till she realised Mary would not speak until she had Anne's full and sole attention.
"Lady Scrope," Anne began with a heavy sigh of tedium, Mary was in no way disliked by Anne but Anne could not abide such childish behaviour in someone beyond ten and three summers. "Come now, out with your hearsay before I declare you struck dumb in innocence." Mary did not catch that Anne had indirectly called her an idiot, but then the apt use of words was not Mistress Scrope's greatest virtue.
"His Majesty wishes for you to join him in the privy gardens" Mary succumbed the order with a blush. A wave of panic blossomed in Anne's bosom; she had not intended to grace the court outside of the Queen's chambers and was now summoned to the King's presence in an average looking gown and her hair on the verge of desperately needing a wash.
"Thank you Mary" Anne swallowed as she rose from her seat. There would be no time to fully prepare her self for the King so Anne hurriedly tucked her hair in a loose lace veil so that its shape was held while its state was mercifully hidden. Then, with a smoothing pat of her gown, Anne left the Queen's chambers for the palace's pleasure gardens which were in full bloom. She found the King alone, save for a few guards he was always followed by. Anne stopped by the door and curtseyed to the King before he bade her approach. Henry was stood by a bundle of rose bushes, both red and white. He held some petals rubbing them between his thumb and forefinger.
"What a rare blossom you are Mistress Anne. An English rose who weathered the licentious storms of the French court and come home to us unplucked. The King of France, I am told, is an ardent gardener and often gathers a beautiful bouquet for his bedchamber. How is it that this rose escaped such attention?" Henry dropped the petals and gazed longingly at Anne.
"One can attract attention without bestowing one's favours, Majesty. I could never surrender my honour so cheaply." Anne averted her eyes from the King and involved herself in the blooming flowers.
"Cheaply?" the King repeated incredulously, "Some would hold it a great honour to be the mistress of a King."
"But as your Majesty rightfully observed, I am a rarity. Never would I sacrifice my virtue for a brief, fleeting favour found between royal sheets. A rose does not survive long once plucked." King Henry just stared at her, their pulses throbbing. His fingers tightened around the stem of scarlet rose and there was a sharp snap as he broke it from its fellows. He held it up and twirled it slowly, carefully observing each single petal.
"Roses are meant to be plucked, lest they should wither on their stems, petals by the winds and rains dispersed and trodden underfoot." He held the flower out to Anne and as she rose her hand to accept it Anne noticed the silver locket hanging from his neck. She had never finished the letter she had intended to send with the miniature, for a moment she was perplexed by Henry's possession until she recognised her father's work.
"You admit you are a rarity, perhaps now I prove you are most worthy of my love." Henry silenced yet Anne knew there was more he wished to say but perhaps did not know how to. They remained looking at each other for some time, Anne felt utterly drawn to him this magnificent man of presence and intensity. The scene was perfect; a fine summer's day and a garden in bloom, two sweethearts meet clandestinely. Her eyes darted to his lips and consented to a single sweet kiss.
"You may return to my Lady the Queen now, Mistress Boleyn." Henry swiftly broke away from her and marched past to the door where Cardinal Wolsey stood waiting. Anne remained still until all had left the garden except her. She inhaled the perfume of the rose, lightness sat on her brow and for a moment Anne thought herself wooed and began a long wander back to the Queen's chambers. She detoured to her father's chamber where she found him, as always, hidden beneath a mountain of communications.
"Did you send the locket to the King?" Her father did not look up from his work, "Did you forge my hand and send a letter to the King without my consent?" She said this time her tone a little more severe. Though what good it did, Thomas Boleyn remained concentrated in his correspondence with France.
"Yes." He said nonchalantly, "I used little of what you had already written, embellishing your feelings of modesty at 'such wondrous gifts' and how his Majesty's affections have touched both your 'heart and soul'. I thought it well crafted." Only then did Boleyn halt his pen and look up at his daughter. "Has something happened? Has the King visited you?" Anne gaped at her father then threw the rose down on his desk with indignation before storming out of his chambers. Once back in the Queen's chambers Anne tore off the lacey veil and threw her body into a chair in livid humiliation. She looked to her discarded book; embossed in the maroon leather, a small knight and his horses stood at full tilt, and she suddenly felt ashamed.
.
Nights later the court were at leisure after having dined splendidly; there had been trays heaped high with crayfish, mutton, venison, chicken, beef, and fish; fritters, tarts made of custard and fruits, nuts, and spices; great rounds of cheese; loaves of bread, with fresh churned butter, honey, and several kinds of jam; and, in the centre of it all, a magnificent boar's head with gilded tusks sat proudly. Good mood flowed through the court like a lively spring; however, for Henry it was another night of stolen glances. The King sat with his Spanish Queen by a great fire being served mulled wine. However, the King's attention was torn from his wife by the joyful sound of dancers and young partners. At the centre of it all Anne Boleyn, in a dark red dress, spun and hopped to the music, occasionally lifted by a nameless youth as the dance shifted from Galliard to Volte. They were the very epitome of youthful courtly love. The King looked at his wife; the strains of child bearing and the slow decay of time had taken their tolls on the woman who had once been regarded as 'the most beautiful creature in the world'. Her weathered hands, the deepening lines building trenches along her eyes, and her plumping frame did little to rouse the passion Henry had once felt for his bride and the lack of an heir did much to wither whatever love there may have been between the two. Anne on the other hand was still in the summer of her life, her looks unmarred by Time's jealous hand. Henry turned his attention back the dance with enthusiasm and engrossed himself in the twirl of red fabric. The youth lifted Anne up, his hands firmly set on her hip, and Henry found himself drowning in the spectacle. He gazed after her like a love struck schoolboy, sighing to himself with longing that he wasn't her partner for this and every dance hereafter. And who was to blame? He thought, The Spanish Frump. Suddenly, just as the dance drew to a close, Henry and Anne's eyes locked. The musicians slowed and Anne curtseyed, no doubt directed to the King, her eyes demurely lowered and daintily seductive but all too soon she was gone.
"Sister" George Boleyn handed Anne's drink back to her. "I'm surprised he wasn't panting and howling after you like a dog." He had meant it to be a compliment.
"You shouldn't say such things" Anne fixed him with a cold stare. The mischievousness drained from his face and he stuttered an apology. With an anxious swig of her drink Anne watched the King from afar, her attentions barely hidden by the swarm of court. Their father sidled over, his vanity and pride most apparent. In a silent exchange he glared down at his daughter with satisfaction then led George away to the coos of "my lord" and "your grace".
From that night till the day Anne left the palace for her lady's monthly break from court was the King who most often availed himself of her services. He summoned her to his drawing room to play her lute and sing for him, or read aloud when his eyes wearied, or to walk with him by the river or in his pleasure gardens. Dutifully, she hunted and hawked and danced with him. She diced and risked fortunes at cards with him, and applauded his performance at the tennis court, bowling green, tiltyard, and archery butts. The day before her departure a letter stamped with the Royal Seal arrived at Thomas Boleyn's chambers, directed here so that Anne's seduction may be kept from the Queen for a little while more.
My Dear Anne,
I and my heart put ourselves in your hands, begging that your affection for them should not grow less through absence. For it would be a great pity to increase their sorrow since absence does it sufficiently, and more than ever I could have thought possible. I would you were in my arms or I in yours for I think it long since I kissed you. As I cannot be with you in person, I am sending you the nearest possible thing to that, namely, my picture set in a bracelet. Wishing myself in its place, this by the hand of,
Your loyal servant and friend,
Henry R.
And though the words pleased Anne her mind was near constantly occupied and troubled. A full month had passed since the first news of Princess Margaret's widowing and still her ship had not sailed up the Thames. Anne thought often of Charles, worrying for his safety before becoming ashamed at receiving the King's affections so boldly. As fond as she was of the King he did not ignite in her that spark which she ever felt upon the slightest thought of her Gentleness. It was like a whirlpool, dragging her down further and deeper and beyond her control, she felt like little more than a card in her father's hand and the gambit grew higher with each courtesy. Then the stakes were raised to all-in.
While at rest at Hever King Henry burst into the house, crying for Anne and nearly shaking with his suppressed passion. He found her in one of the galleries and repeated her name with relief then crushed his mouth against hers greedily. He was a man intoxicated. His arms encircled her, drawing her ever closer "Anne", he said for the third time. He smiled lovingly at her, his eyes bright, confident but his next words did not have their intended effect.
"Maitresse en titre...Your official Mistress..." Anne turned away from him, her face downcast. Henry frowned and snatched her hand to make her look at him. She turned a reproachful face to him and said sadly, "what have I done to make you treat me like this?" Henry was confused; in any other case his quarry would fall docile into his arms. What should have been a happy occasion where the two could declare their love official took a sour turn as Anne defended her honour. Henry hated to be shown something he could not have.
"I know how it goes otherwise. My sister is called the Great Prostitute by everyone." Henry looked at her, stunned. Confused emotions roiled around in him. No woman had ever refused, him, let alone deemed his intentions an insult.
"I am sorry if I offended you. I did not mean to. I spoke plainly of my true feelings." He said stiffly. Anne lowered her head again.
"Majesty" Henry had no choice: he turned and stalked away. He stormed down the stairwell, red-faced and humiliated, and came across Thomas Boleyn waiting for him at the entrance to the hall. Boleyn bowed as the King past him; Henry didn't so much as acknowledge him. He strode out of the castle, mounted his horse and galloped off. Henry rode fast down the hard-baked earthen road, escorted by two yeomen of the guard, their horses' hooves churning up clouds of dust. Boleyn listened to the sound of the horses' hooves receding, and gave a small satisfied smile.
"That was well done daughter" he told her, "Very well done indeed."
"Was it?" Anne asked quietly. Boleyn stepped forward and peered at her face in surprise. She was on the verge of tears. She stared at her father a moment.
"Was it?" she repeated bitterly, and fled the room.
For the rest of the day Anne's spirits could not be raised, not that her servants and particularly not her father tried. She would not smile again until George arrived home freshly from London the following day, his visit both informal and on a mission as the King's courier. Anne and George were sat in the kitchen at Hever, the day reminiscent of the time George stole her letter that had accompanied the gold and amber cross. George rambled about some court gossip which Anne had no interest in, the usual royal rumblings mainly, until he retrieved a letter from his doublet and like a conjurer he taunted Anne with it. Anne snatched at it already knowing it would have come from Henry. The black spell over her broke as she took the letter in hand; she made for the seal but remembering George's penchant for nosiness she tucked the parchment into her bodice safe for opening later when she might be alone. George laughed at his little sister then took up an apple and bit into it.
"Oh" He began with a mouth full of fruit, "This will make you laugh. His Majesty's sister has finally come home. But!" he took another bite of the apple, "that bloody idiot, Brandon, has married her!" His words struck Anne like a cannonball to the gut. So many emotions battered her senses she did not know which was stronger, her sadness, her rage, her jealousy? It felt as though her heart had been torn still beating from her chest and squeezed like a lemon till it was empty. The colour drained from her face and Anne sat beside her brother before she could fall.
"What a fool." She said, her voice level and void of all feeling, dead.
Disclaimer – I have no idea if ladies in waiting really left court once a month, probably not, but it was the only thing I could think of to excuse Anne leaving court every other scene (I know, such an original idea isn't it)
More Charles/Anne next chapter I promise! Feel free to review, if you have any criticisms please mention them :)