“You best tell me then. I give no sworn oath unless I first know what it entails.”
Henry laughed.
“He does not trust us, Francis. We must look the part of proper scoundrels—when all we wish to do is serve well the King.”
“Are we not all here for the same purpose? Harry, speak plain, man.”
“You heard, Tom, that the King has kindly entrusted me to oversee one of the main festivities celebrating Christmas-tide? Francis has agreed to be my aid in this. What say you, Tom—will you also lend your hand in ensuring the success of these festivities?”
“Yea—of course. What have you planned, Harry?”
“A mock battle, taking place here at Greenwich over a period of divers days. On the tiltyard I plan to have built a sham castle of wood and other materials. Look here, Tom.”
Henry passed to me a paper, roughly scrawled with a drawing of a small castle.
“The King drew this himself—now ’tis up to me to bring his drawing into being. I envision the Castle of Loyalty—Francis here named it—shall have three turrets stretched between two battlements, each battlement with at least three lancet windows, and the flags of England rising above them. I’ve already asked the artisans to make ready a rampant lion to be fixed upon the gate. Within the castle, I shall place four ladies of our court under the protection of a captain and fifteen gentlemen. I hope one of those gentlemen will be you, Tom. What say you—are you party to this plot?”
“Why not—I can think of no other men presently at court whose company I’d rather be in than you two—proper scoundrels or not.”
Thus I became part of Henry Norris’ enterprise to entertain the King at Christmas-tide.
The castle, I must admit, seemed well made. Nevertheless, I think we who were within its protection spent much of our time being afeared that the castle—our only protection—would suddenly buckle under the constant onslaughts of assays against its outer shell.
Early in the morning of St. John the Evangelist Day, we sent out from the castle six of our men, armed with lances and on horseback. Thus, signalling the end of the ramming of the castle, ramming thinly disguised under the knightly name of a tilt. Methinks our female companions found other, unflattering words for it, seeing how these ladies would scream in absolute terror whenever the castle was rocked or dented by the assault of yet another knight.
Our six comrades in arms made their emergence from the castle’s outer shell and the next stage of this feigned battle began—for two ladies, clothed in stately gowns of damask, arrived on the scene, riding upon white palfreys and escorted by two supposedly ancient knights with long, silver beards. Sitting erect upon black steeds, the knights were dressed in rich cloaks suggestive of great nobility.
Queen Catherine now entered upon the spectacle. The Queen, as well, was very finely dressed in a gown adorned with costly jewels and cloaked in a heavy, purple garment of velvet. Though she looked every inch a Queen, no rich clothes could hide the fact that the Queen’s beauty was no more. Though very short, Queen Catherine remained erect in stature, but was also very stout, looking every day and more of her forty years. I could not help reflecting and wondering at the feelings of the Queen. From the early, blissful days of her marriage to the King, the Queen always had an important part in these elaborate play acts. It was to be the same on this day, during this grand performance. Queen Catherine was here to listen to the petitions of these supposedly elderly knights. Yet, so much had now turned. Where once these performances were filled with the expectancy of youth, now youth fled, leaving in its place an empty, hopeless thing.
When near the Queen, the ladies and knights reigned in their horses and pages ran onto the grounds to hold fast the horses’ reins. The two knights then dismounted and bowed to the Queen. The Queen then spoke in her strong, deep and vibrant voice, reaching all those who listened on this day.
“I have taken heed of your approach, my lords,” she said to the men. “You appear to have travelled from afar. Tell me, good sirs, what is your desire? For what reasons have you journeyed here?”
One of the tall knights moved forthwith towards her, and knelt before her upon one well-shaped knee.
“Your gracious Queen,” he said, his words muffled by his headgear. “Though we are hindered by the great disadvantage of age, my good fellow knight and I desire permission of your Grace to assail the defenders of the castle. We wish to reveal to you, gracious Queen, that strength of character, and attributes of good will and courage, are all that are needed to gain true and valiant victory.”
The Queen and her ladies applauded these words of courage, coming so earnestly from the mouth of this knight, and gave him and his companion her permission to proceed with their desire. All of us then tried to act surprised when the knights tossed away their disguises revealing that they were none other than the King and the Duke of Suffolk—dressed richly in gold, silver and the deep purple of royal estate.
We, who had been left behind in the confines of the castle, now watched—from the high planks fastened behind the fake walls of the castle—a tournament unfold between our defenders and the King and Duke. Within minutes the contest was over. Indeed, the King demonstrated his usual standard by breaking at least seven spears.
On one of the final days, our great enjoyment of this great make-believe soured somewhat when, out of sheer boredom I believe, some defenders of the castle began throwing stones at the people standing outside the walls. Very soon, to the horror of us who wanted nothing of it, a real and somewhat bloody battle was taking place. Unfortunately, as was usual in this sort of situation, the only people to be really hurt were a few innocent bystanders.
*
Thus, 1524 came to a close, and 1525 began in earnest. And this was the year that saw Anna summoned back to court.
Anne had left a broken-hearted girl of fifteen—all her young faith about what life would bring her completely destroyed. She came back at eighteen, on the threshold of womanhood, utterly desirable. And with plans to use her desirability as a way to gain revenge. I had never stopped loving Anna, but this was one time in our long association when I came close to losing my patience with her, and thus was brought many times near to anger.
Alas, it was easy to see that the King had not lost his interest in her. But, for me, it was also easy to perceive that Anna had worked out the King’s character during her time in exile. Therefore, she made him more intrigued and interested by appearing utterly disinterested in him. I did not believe for one moment that Anna knew or understood what danger she was putting herself in. So I devised a plan of my own to keep her safe. The King was not the only man to be wooing Anna… I likewise courted my dark Lady.
I reasoned that if my wooing resembled that of an Arthurian knight who chose to honour a lady with acts of chivalry and platonic devotion, (abiding by strict rules existing for hundreds of years—yea, ever since Eleanor of Aquitaine wedded England’s second Henry) then the King, with his great love for role-playing, might also follow suit. Thus, I greatly hoped, Anne, for the moment, would be protected from the King’s barely concealed lust.
Yea, I freely admit, my plan was rather mad, and probably ill thought out. But God help me! I could not sit by and do nothing.
Anna, who could remember well our childhood acting, gave away with an amused glint in her eyes that she saw through my act. I think she assumed that I was trying to help her by increasing the King’s ardour through the rivalry of competition. To my eyes, Anne became more beautiful every day. It was an absolute torment and agony to pretend something that was not pretence.
Anne was at this time a Lady in Waiting to Catherine of Aragon. I thought the Queen a very gracious lady, for whom I once was given the pleasure and honour of composing poems. And I, despite all the conflicts the future would bring, always thought most highly of the Queen, believing with all my heart that this saintly woman was great and noble. She did not deserve the terrible, most cruel future the fates held in store for her.
And what was the King, her husband, like? King Henry was now a man of thirty-five, a man very much in the midst of his prime. He was also a man who had, many years before, fallen out of love with his older wife, a woman rapidly aged by frequent child-bearing and the deep grief of losing all her children, bar one—the nine-year old Princess Mary.
Yea, I will admit the truth. Our King at thirty-five was a man nobly made. Indeed, Henry of England was a man among men. Taller by far than most men of his court, he was a man exceedingly vain about his presence, and with every reason to be. Red golden hair, bright blue eyes, athletic body, and skin so fair and clear that it was the envy of many a woman. England took great pride in its manly and seemingly courageous King. Almost as much as the King took pride in the image he himself presented to his Kingdom.
Sometimes I cannot help but thinking that the King’s greatest love affair was with himself. In sooth, so much so that it affected his prowess in the bedchamber. It must be hard to make love to a woman when you are so used to making love to yourself.
His courtship of Anne was very different to his usual, easy conquests, simply because she rebuffed him. And Anne’s utter indifference to his kingly desires would have, I believe, shocked our poor King right down to his toenails. Never before had a subject—and a
woman
at that—rebuffed him. Anne was clever enough to realise that her apparent rejection of his advances was like putting a red flag to a bull, and she soon had this particular royal bull charging at that flag.
And it was not only the King who could not get enough of her company. Since Anne’s return from Hever she had fast become a major influence at court. Many of the ladies at court were trying desperately to follow her lead in everything. Indeed, in so many different directions that George and I could not help sharing our amusement with one another. Certainly, Anne only had to alter her dresses slightly for this alteration to become the latest fashion—very quickly copied by all the women at the court. Even Anna’s favourite colours were seen everywhere.
However, I also could not help thinking that many of these mature, court ladies made utter fools of themselves when they attempted to copy Anne’s lovely, fluid manner of dance. To watch her dance was to watch something truly unique and marvellous. But then dancing, from the time she was a little child, was always one of Anne’s greatest gifts, and I felt it could never be copied to the soaring level she was able to achieve, and with such apparent, effortless grace.
Standing alongside George, I felt embarrassed for these older ladies when I watched them try to match and outdo Anne’s movements upon the dance floor.
I turned and whispered to George.
“Can one expect a duck to be as graceful in the water as a swan? Nay, I say, and more: Anne has more grace in one fingertip than those women have in their entire bodies.”
George’s eyes shone his amusement and he gave a brief laugh.
George knew, as did I, that Anna had made good use of her time away from court. ’Twas during this time when she was “exiled” at Hever that she had found the time to experiment with her style of dance and dress. Indeed, it was now, when she re-emerged at the English court, that her father’s decision to send her to France was showing its greatest benefits. For it was during this time abroad that Anne had absorbed her knowledge regarding fashion, and how it could be used to add to her attractions and hide what she wished not to show.
In all honesty, my cousin Anna, from the time she was a little girl, had been very self-conscious about her body’s imperfections, especially that of a mole upon her neck and a tiny growth upon her right hand’s fifth finger. Yea, she was very aware of these two defects. Aware, because whenever Uncle Boleyn was angry with her as a little child, he always brought up those minor blemishes, saying that no man would ever have her for his wife if he realised her body hid two marks of the devil. For certes, I remember to this very day one occasion when the little girl that Anne once was went completely white and sick-looking after her father had told her that the lump on her finger reminded him of a devil’s teat. Something possessed by one of his followers so the Prince of Evil could come and suckle at their person.
Thus, by the time she returned to court Anna had thought of two ways to hide these physical flaws. Around her slender, beauteous neck—to cover up her pretty mole—she now took to wearing some sort of collar, whether it be simply of cloth or ribbon, or something that was made of precious metals and jewels.
And I discovered, only days after she returned to court, how Anna conspired to hide her misshapen finger. I entered her chamber to find Anna sitting in the window seat, her back to the afternoon sun, sewing together pieces of fabric. Seeing a stool next to the window seat, I went over to sit beside her.
Concentrating hard at her task, Anne gave me a fleeting glance and a brief but welcoming smile. For a few minutes, the only sound I could hear was the needle pushing its way through dense fabric. At length, I felt a need for Anna to do more than just momentarily acknowledge my presence.
“What are you sewing?” I asked.
Anna bit off the strand of cotton, and spread the black material out on her lap.
“Do you not see, Tom? I am making new sleeves for my gowns. Simonette told me of this old design—remembering a gown of her mother’s. Let me show you.”