“Greatness.” Cedric regards me with eyes that belong to a man much older than himself. “Can greatness be born of bloodshed and suffering, from manipulation and cruelty?”
“You go too far, Master Dane,” I tell him, my heart sinking at knowing our moment of beauty has fled.
“Forgive me. I get caught up in debate for the spirit of it,” he tells me. “I mean no offense against the great Lord Norfolk. I am certain he is a most loving and attentive father who will think of nothing but your happiness all of his days.”
“Of course,” I insist. “He always thinks of my happiness. He wants me to be a great lady. He is showing me how to walk….” I cannot stop the tears from coming now. “If he didn’t love me, why would he lower himself to such things?”
“Indeed,” says Cedric. “God bless the man who instructs his thirteen-year-old daughter on how to walk.”
“Why are you being cruel?” I demand.
“Oh, little Mistress Howard,” he says, taking my hands. “I want you to know something, and please take it to heart. I am the least cruel person you will find at this court. The only words that leave my lips are honest ones. Mistress Howard,” he says in a voice so gentle it wrenches my heart. “Mary. Take care of yourself. Look after your own interests first for, believe me, no one else will.”
I withdraw my hands. “You forget yourself and my rank. You will neither address me informally nor lay hands on my person again,” I say haughtily as I turn about in a whirl of skirts and quit the room.
But his words haunt me as I make my way to Anne’s apartments. He is wrong, surely he is wrong. He is just an arrogant musician who is not nearly as mature as he thinks he is. He knows nothing of me or my father or my life.
He is wrong. I am well looked after. Norfolk does think of my best interests.
Norfolk does love me.
7
The Marquess of Pembroke
Though my feet ache from practicing my walk, it is well worth it when at last the day of Anne’s elevation ceremony arrives. I vomited everything I ate that day, so decide against eating anything else, and Madge Shelton continually pinches my white cheeks to bring color to them.
“You mustn’t worry so,” she reassures me as we dress Anne for the event. “You’re going to do wonderfully.”
“You’d better,” Anne cries as ladies flutter about her in an effort to dress her. Nothing is good enough for Anne today, and the slightest thing causes her to unleash a string of curse words I did not think ladies even knew. No one can do anything right. Her corset is not tight enough. Her sleeves are not tied right. The velvet itches. The ermine smells. Her bum roll is lopsided. Any grievances that can be aired against both her gown and attendants, are; and it is no surprise to fall under her criticism.
“All I need is you falling with my robes,” she goes on in a sharp voice as her sister brushes out her long black hair. Despite her foul temper and the scowl that crinkles her forehead, she is the most alluring woman I’ve ever seen.
“I won’t, my lady,” I assure her. “I’ve been practicing.” Indeed, the last few times I was with Norfolk he piled a few cloaks in my arms so that I would adjust to the weight of the robes.
Anne scoffs and regards her reflection in the glass as the other ladies offer their admiration.
When my father comes to escort her and the procession to the king’s presence chamber, I cannot contain my trembling. This is the moment. This is what I have been practicing for.
I will be solemn and grand. I will do my lady and Norfolk proud. I carry the robes and the coronet to the presence chamber, following my lady with slow, measured steps.
Once there I behold the king in all his majesty beneath his canopy of cloth of gold. He radiates light and glory and power. This is a stunning personage and not one to be crossed. To think my cousin will soon be his wife. They will be a formidable couple. A sudden lightness in my heart tells me they will be a happy one as well.
I follow the standard-bearers, each carrying Anne’s symbol: the falcon, a creature as exacting as she is. My father follows them. The Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, a cantankerous old buzzard with an ever-present scowl, is there offering begrudging support to his brother-in-law the king.
The countesses of Sussex and Rutland help Anne to kneel on the platform, and already I am eager for the ceremony to end. I am shaking, and fear my father will notice and begin rehearsing his lecture in his head even as we speak.
I endure all the prayers uttered by the king’s less-than-personable secretary, Bishop Gardiner. I am amazed the king has shown such mercy to Gardiner after his vociferous disapproval of the king’s becoming head of the Church of England, but sometimes he surprises me. Instead of burning him at the stake or some such horror, he merely confiscated his home, Hanworth, and made it another gift to Anne.
I wonder fleetingly how many other bold clerics might lose their homes to Henry and his bride before his reign is out, then chastise myself for the treasonous thought.
At last the king approaches me, taking the robes and coronet. I am relieved to hand them off. He meets my eyes with his own glittering blue gaze and offers a bright smile. I smile back. Perhaps that is his way of telling me I did a good job and he is proud of me.
He wraps the robes about my lady’s shoulders and, with the utmost loving care, places the coronet atop her dark head, creating her Marquess of Pembroke.
She stands beside her intended, glowing with pride and triumph. The air thrills with their happiness. The world seems full of hope and endless possibilities.
8
France
When I think that Anne cannot be defeated and is at last allowed a moment of quiet to revel in her joy, something spoils it, causing her to be up in arms all over again. The very next day we are informed that the queen of France will not come to Calais or Boulogne to meet my lady. This is a blatant demonstration of the French queen’s disapproval of the match and the king’s break from the Church of Rome.
Anne breaks down in a moment of fury and calls the queen as many derogatory names as she can think of on short notice, but the much-favored Master Cromwell, ever calm, reassures her that King François’s sister, the queen of Navarre, will attend her instead, which does something to mollify Anne. Now she will at least be able to meet King François and make an impression upon him as future queen of England.
Later Anne decides that, though she is satisfied with the jewels she has planned for her trip, she would like to have in her possession Queen Catherine’s jewels as well.
I am saddened at this. I do not understand why she would want another woman’s jewels. But then she wanted another woman’s husband, so I suppose the jewels are the least of it now. Such uncharitable thoughts do not become me, I think, and vow to be more compassionate toward my lady, whom I imagine is under the highest level of anxiety.
When the king tells her my father will be sent to fetch the jewels from Catherine, Anne’s wild black eyes lose their glint of madness. She calms and, exhausted, sinks onto her chaise, demanding one of us to fan her. She is trembling and smiling, but tears fill her eyes.
I am starting to think it is not so great a thing to be Anne Boleyn.
It pains me to admit that the days my father is up north visiting the queen—I mean, the princess dowager—are my most peaceful. I pack my things for our trip to France. I break from the norm and write some frivolous verse, which I share with some of my friends who are writing their own. We decide we will make a little compilation of our work. I vow not to write anything in “O Happy Dames” for Cedric Dane. I will not write a thing for him ever. Indeed, I hope not to have any future run-ins with the presumptuous lad again.