The Tudor Wife. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ Anne and, from the basket over his arm, began to strew crimson rose petals in her path. ‘I knew my lady would be arriving today, so I was up with the dawn to gather a carpet of roses for her to walk upon!’

      ‘He means his valet was up with the dawn to gather them!’ Weston chortled.

      Not to be outdone, both Wyatt and Weston announced that they had written sonnets to welcome her. And before Wyatt could claim the privilege of prior acquaintance again, Weston loudly commenced reciting, only to have his words curtailed by a sharp cuff upon the ear.

      ‘You look a pirate and it is a pirate you are!’ Wyatt hotly declared, referring to the patch Weston wore over the empty socket of his left eye. ‘You have pirated my entire second verse!’

      ‘It is a bold accusation you make, Sir, and for it you shall answer!’ Weston’s hand sought the hilt of his sword and he advanced towards Wyatt, the large pendent pearl dangling from his left earlobe swaying violently.

      It was then that Anne came between them, laughing and resting a hand lightly upon each of their indignantly heaving chests.

      ‘Verily, this is the most passionate welcome I have ever had! Please, gentlemen, do not spoil it by brawling. Let these rose petals be the only red that falls upon the ground this day, and not your life’s blood!’

      Then, all thoughts of violence dispelled, they followed her inside.

      

      Anne had scarcely arrived at court—indeed her servants had not had time to unpack all her gowns—before love literally fell at her feet.

      Love came in the form of Harry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland’s son and heir. Tall, gangling, gingerhaired, stuttering, shy, and constantly tripping over his own tongue and feet, Harry Percy was the last man anyone would have expected to win Anne Boleyn’s heart. For his clumsiness he was famous; I once saw him mount his horse on one side and fall right off the other. And it was said about the court that ‘anyone can fall down stairs, but Harry Percy has made an art of falling up them!’ He looked like a farm boy masquerading as a prince, and only the most mercenary of maidens would have been smitten with him. And, as much as I would like to paint Anne blacker, and say that such a one was she, to do so would be a lie. The love that shone in her eyes and the tender, indulgent smile that graced her lips whenever she looked at Harry Percy told their own tale.

      It was upon her first day to serve Queen Catherine, when she sat sewing beside me, that Harry Percy came in with a group of gentlemen, tripped over a footstool, and fell sprawling at Anne’s feet. We rocked with laughter until tears ran down our faces. Even Queen Catherine herself could not suppress a smile, though she tried to hide it behind her hand. Only Anne was silent. Then, with a gentle smile, she bent down and softly asked, ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

      ‘I…I…’ Percy stammered, staring up at her with eyes big, brown, and adoring as a spaniel’s. ‘I tr-tripped.’

      His words inspired a fresh burst of laughter.

      ‘Take no notice of them,’ Anne advised. ‘Anyone is apt to trip.’

      ‘And what a nice trip it was, eh, Percy?’ Francis Weston quipped, laughing harder still when Percy failed to comprehend the jest.

      But Anne and Percy were oblivious to it all; they had eyes only for each other.

      It all came so easily for her. She had found true love and her niche, occupying a unique place at the heart—and in the hearts—of that band of merry wits. With George, Wyatt, Weston, Brereton, and Norris she was most often to be found. Together they would sit huddled in a window embrasure or outside under the trees, laughing and setting sonnets to song or devising clever masques to entertain the court. She was the flame to which they, like moths, were drawn. Women envied her yet rushed to emulate her—the cunning sleeves, doglike collars, and the French hood (a gilt-, pearl-, or jewel-bordered crescent of velvet or satin that perched upon a lady’s head, often with a veil trailing gracefully behind) which she favored over the more cumbersome gable hood with its stiff, straight wooden borders and peaked tip that framed the wearer’s face like a dormer window. And now she was set to wed the heir to a rich earldom, and it was a love match to boot! Even Dame Fortune seemed to fawn on Anne Boleyn!

      But then came a hint of trouble, the distant rumble of thunder, like a storm brewing just over the horizon, and I was among the first to heed it.

       2

      At first, it was just like any other night at court; no special cause for celebration, no privileged guest to welcome or holy day to mark. We dined in the Great Hall, and afterwards we danced. The King and Queen sat on their thrones, and hovering nearby, at the King’s beck and call, were Cardinal Wolsey—the butcher’s boy turned priest, who had made himself indispensable to the King and now held the reins of power as Lord Chancellor—and his perpetually black-clad, equally grim-faced henchman, the ruthless and clever lawyer, Thomas Cromwell.

      Henry VIII was in one of his moods, sullen and silent, a dark scowl perched like an evil gargoyle upon his face. His beady blue eyes narrowed and his cruel little pink mouth gnawed distractedly at his knuckles above the magnificent jeweled rings that graced each finger.

      He was like two souls warring for control of a single body. He was ‘Bluff King Hal’ when it suited him, always smiling, always laughing. At such times he could speak to a person—noble or peasant—and make him feel as if he were the most important person in the world. He would look deep into their eyes and nod thoughtfully, as if his whole existence hung upon their every word. But when he was in a red-hot temper or one of his black moods, it was like the Devil claimed him body and soul, and he became a bloated, red-faced, raging monster; a tyrant, ready to shed the blood of friend or foe, anyone who dared cross him.

      He was a giant of a man, massive and muscular—at the time of which I now write, an active life of dancing and sport kept the future promise of fat at bay—with broad shoulders and trim, finely shaped calves of which he was inordinately vain. He was very handsome, ruddycheeked, with red-gold hair and a short, neatly groomed beard. And his mode of dressing made him seem larger and more dazzling still. His velvet coats, which reached only to just above his knees lest they obscure his shapely calves, were padded at the shoulders to make them look bigger and broader still; his doublets were a frenzy of jewels, gilding, embroidery, puffing, and slashing; and his round, flat caps were garnished with gilt braid, jewels, and jaunty curling white plumes. Silk hose sheathed his legs, and the square-toed velvet slippers he favored were embroidered with golden threads and precious gems. And round his neck he wore heavy golden collars and chains with diamonds, and other magnificent gems, as big as walnuts.

      From time to time he would dart swift, peevish glances at the woman by his side—Catherine of Aragon.

      At the age of fifteen a golden-haired Spanish girl named Catalina had bid farewell to her parents, Their Most Christian Majesties Ferdinand and Isabella, changed her name to Catherine, and left behind her native land, to brave a savage, storm-tossed sea and marry Arthur, Prince of Wales. The moment that that frightened, weary, homesick girl, green-tinged and fluttery-bellied with mal de mer, set foot on English soil, a miracle occurred—the people of England, always wary and distrustful of foreigners, fell in love with her. It was a love that would last a lifetime and sustain her through all the travails to come. Her bridegroom was a pale and sickly boy who succumbed to death’s embrace before, Catherine swore, he could become a true husband to her, and for years afterwards she languished in penury, darning her threadbare gowns and pawning her СКАЧАТЬ