The Tudor Wife. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ while her father-in-law, the miserly King Henry VII and her equally crafty father, King Ferdinand of Aragon, haggled over the unpaid portion of her dowry.

      Then the old King died and young Prince Henry, glowing with promise and golden vitality, at age seventeen was crowned the eighth Henry. His first official act as king was to make Catherine his queen. He loved her brave, tenacious spirit, her kindness, sweet smile, quiet grace, and gentle nature. At the time, it didn’t matter to him that she was six years his senior; Henry was in love. And, for a time at least, everything seemed golden.

      Time passed. The luster dimmed and tarnished. All the stillbirths and miscarriages—only Princess Mary lived and thrived—and the poor little boys who clung feebly to life for a week or a month before they lost their fragile grasp, took their toll, as did the years, upon the golden-haired Spanish girl. Her petite body, once so prettily plump, after ten pregnancies grew stout; her waist thickened; lines at first fine, but etched deeper with every passing year and fresh sorrow, appeared upon her face; the golden tresses faded and skeins of silver and white snaked through them. And more and more she turned to religion for comfort, fasting, wearing a coarse, chafing hair shirt beneath her stiff, dowdy, dark-hued Spanish gowns, and spending hours upon her knees in chapel, praying fervently before a statue of the Virgin.

      King Henry grew bored and his eye started to wander. And, even worse, his mind started to wonder why he was cursed with the lack of male issue. He needed a son, a future king for England. A daughter simply would not do; no girl, no mere weak and foolish female, could ever handle the reins of government, or bear without buckling the weight of the Crown! This was the impasse they had reached by the night my ears first became attuned to that distant rumble, and I knew a storm was brewing.

      

      It was the most hilarious sight! Rarely has a dance inspired so much mirth. Indeed, at the sight of Anne and Percy dancing the galliard, some of us fairly screamed with laughter. I can see them now: Anne, grace incarnate in a splendid embroidered gown done in five shades of red, with a French hood to match, and a choker of carnelian beads. And Percy, equally resplendent in lustrous plum satin, bumbling, bumping, treading upon toes, and stumbling his way through that lively measure; twice he lost a slipper and once trod upon his own hat when it fell from his head.

      Suddenly the King clapped his hands and the music stopped. The dancers froze as if they had suddenly been turned to statues.

      ‘Enough! Enough!’ Henry strode across the floor, women dropping into curtsies and men falling to their knees on every side of him. He stopped before Anne and Percy.

      ‘Mistress Anne, you will oblige me by satisfying my curiosity upon a point that has perplexed me for quite some time. You are newly come from France, where I am told the court fairly overflows with gallant, handsome men, graceful of both step and speech. And here in England we have such men as well.’ He gestured to a nearby cluster of gallants, all of them eloquent speakers and accomplished dancers. ‘And yet, you have given your heart to young Percy here, who has feet as big and ungainly as duck boats and stammers so that it appears he can scarcely speak English, let alone flattery and flowery speeches?’

      ‘All that glitters is not gold, Your Majesty,’ Anne said pointedly, her eyes flitting briefly over his ornate, goldembellished crimson velvet doublet, unimpressed, as she sank into a deep, graceful curtsy at his feet, with her red skirts swirling about her like a spreading pool of blood.

      ‘Indeed?’ Henry arched his brows, very much intrigued. Clearly this was no blushing, demure damsel, simpering and shy, who would quail meek and fearful at his feet! ‘Percy! Sit you down, man, and I will show you how to tread a measure without treading on everyone’s toes!’ He clapped his hands sharply. ‘Play!’ he commanded the musicians. ‘Mistress Anne…’ He held out his hand, and not even Anne dared refuse him.

      After the dance ended he thanked her and turned away to speak briefly with Sir Henry Norris, a dear friend as well as his Groom of the Stool, his most personal body servant. Anne dismissed the King from her thoughts as if he were no more than any other boring boy she had encountered at a dance, and headed straight for where Harry Percy sat; she never looked back. But as they stole away together, Henry’s eyes followed them, beady blue and crafty, and his rings flashed a rainbow in the candlelight as he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Then he turned and crooked a finger to summon Wolsey

      .

      The Cardinal hurried instantly to his side. Though their words were hushed, Henry’s expression was adamant, and the Cardinal’s most perplexed. ‘See to it!’ the King snapped before he resumed his throne, ignoring Catherine’s gentle, inquiring smile, and brusquely brushing aside the hand she laid lightly upon his sleeve.

      The golden light of the torches spilled out into the garden, and there, upon a carpet of soft green grass, Anne and her darling Percy danced alone. I watched them from the terrace. When he swung her high into the air during lavolta, Anne flung back her head and laughed joyously. In that moment, I think, her happiness was complete. It was then that Percy stumbled. Anne fell. She landed, laughing still, and rolled upon her back, the grass and her full skirts cushioning her fall. Percy was all concern. But when he bent over her, Anne seized his outstretched hand and pulled him down so that he lay on top of her. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him long and lingeringly. Only then did she let him help her up and escort her back inside. They never noticed me as they passed, arm in arm, smiling and staring deep into each other’s eyes. Never before had I seen two people so much in love. I thought of myself and George then, and nearly sank down and wept. We had danced together twice, and he was always gallant and polite, but when he looked at me there was no love in his eyes, only courtesy and…indifference. And, despite all my attempts, I could not kindle a flame, not even a spark.

      

      Weeks passed and life went on as usual. My sense of foreboding faded and I even began to think I had been mistaken. But no, it was only a quiet lull during which the storm lay dormant, gathering its strength.

      It was upon the night of a lavish banquet to welcome the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Queen Catherine’s nephew, that the lightning first flashed in earnest.

      At Wolsey’s opulent palace, York Place, an elaborate masque was to be staged and Anne and I were among those privileged to take part.

      After the banquet, we hurried to the chamber that had been designated our tiring room to don our costumes. Flustered and flush-faced with excitement, we all fluttered about, chattering and screeching like caged birds, nervous fingers fussing with the laces of our gowns, fidgeting with the pearl- and gold-tipped pins and shimmering golden nets that secured our hair beneath the gold-and-crystal-bordered white satin French hoods, and snapping and slapping at the maids who knelt to hastily repair a loose hem or sagging sleeve.

      It was to be a battle royal between the Virtues and the Vices. Perhaps I should have taken as a portent the roles assigned to us. Anne was Perseverance, her sister Mary was Kindness, and I was cast as Constancy.

      In shimmering satin gowns of angel white, with sashes becomingly draped across our breasts embroidered in golden letters with the name of the Virtue we had been chosen to represent, we took our places upon the battlements of a large castle crafted of plaster and papier-mâché, painted in the royal Tudor colors of white and green, that had been wheeled into the Great Hall. Countless candles lit the scene, and the Cardinal’s boy choir and musicians provided heavenly music.

      Suddenly a shrill, fiendish screech pierced the air and in rushed the Vices—Cruelty, Jealousy, Disdain, Malice, Envy, Slander, Wantonness, and Danger. Brandishing and cracking whips, they were gowned in jet-glittering black with embroidered hell-flames of orange, yellow, and scarlet lapping at their skirts and bodices upon which in flaming letters their Vices СКАЧАТЬ