“The King requests your presence,” the first message said. Another followed shortly afterwards, saying, “Bring your lute; the King desires you to play for him.”
Anne sent her lute downstairs with her answer. “Play it for him yourself. My head aches and I am going to bed.”
Sir Thomas Boleyn did not dare send for her again and made her excuses instead to the much annoyed monarch.
The next morning we assembled in the courtyard to bid the King farewell. Only Anne, to her father’s supreme annoyance, was absent.
King Henry pursed his lips and a cloud of anger seemed to hover above the swaying white ostrich plumes on his round velvet cap.
“We hope Mistress Anne will soon regain her health and grace our court again,” he mumbled gruffly.
“Indeed she will, Your Grace, I am certain of it!” Sir Thomas assured him. “I am certain of it!” he repeated as he knelt upon the dusty, sunbaked flagstones to hold the gilded stirrup for the royal foot.
It was then, as he started to swing himself up into the saddle, that King Henry looked up.
Framed like a painting by a master artist, Anne stood at her ivy-bordered window, still in her thin, clinging white nightshift, idly running an ivory comb through her long black hair. Her eyes were staring straight ahead, out into the distance, pointedly ignoring what was happening in the courtyard below. Then, abruptly, she turned away and disappeared from sight, even as King Henry breathed a long sigh and shuddered with desire.
“Tell your daughter that Love is the physician who cures all ails,” he commanded. Then he leapt into the saddle and spurred his horse onward and, with his retinue following, took to the road again.
5
And so it began, the chase, the hunt, that would consume the better part of seven years, shattering and destroying lives, and shaking and tearing the world like a rat in a terrier’s mouth. Nothing would ever be the same again, all because of Ardent Desire and Perseverance.
At Sir Thomas Boleyn’s command, an army of dressmakers descended upon Hever, and the rustle of costly fabrics, the snip of scissors, the snap of thread, and the chatter of women soon filled the sewing room. Lace makers, furriers, clothiers, perfumers, jewelers, shoemakers, stay makers, all rode forth from London as reinforcements summoned by her anxious father, to outfit Anne for battle even though she herself stood haughty and recalcitrant in their midst, with no intention of fighting.
“When Henry of England desires a woman there is never any other answer but ‘Yes,’” Sir Thomas counseled, circling Anne appraisingly as she stood upon a stool while a seamstress knelt to adjust the hem of her new, sunset orange gown.
“Then I shall teach him a new word—No!” Anne announced, prompting George, lounging in a chair draped with swags of silk and lace, to burst into great, rollicking peals of laughter, thus earning himself a sharp cuff upon the ear courtesy of his father.
“But he is the King!” Elizabeth Boleyn protested, wringing her hands despairingly. “Please, Anne, do not provoke his anger! By refusing him you risk all that we possess, all that your father has worked so hard for, all these years!”
“Ah, the life of a court toady!” Anne sneered. “Such backbreaking labor almost makes one envy a bricklayer!”
In his chair George sniggered helplessly, despite his father’s warning stare.
“Enough!” shouted Sir Thomas Boleyn. “You are a clever girl, Anne, so I know that you will understand what I am about to say to you. Your matrimonial prospects are nil; men may flirt with you, but there are no suitors banging at the door begging for your hand. So now you must choose: a life of gaiety at court, where you will do everything that you can to make yourself pleasing to His Majesty, or a bleak life of silence, contemplation, and prayer, locked inside a nunnery. The choice is yours. You should account yourself fortunate that the King casts even a glance at you! Mark me, you are no beauty. A tall, skinny stick topped with long black hair is what you are; your skin is sallow, your bosom small, your eyes too large, and your neck too long. Then there is that ugly wen upon your throat, and that nub of a sixth finger you hide so well with your oh-so-cunning sleeves. And yet…for some unaccountable reason, the King has noticed you; he wants you, and what Henry wants he shall have! I as your father command you, Anne, to make the most of this opportunity. Take it and make it turn to gold!”
“You would serve me to him upon a platter if it would enrich your coffers and elevate your station,” Anne said bitterly.
“Indeed I would! You are a gambler, Anne, so play him, Anne, play him; and take Henry Tudor for all that he is worth! Just don’t lose like you did with Percy. I think it is safe to say that you will not have another chance. Now I will leave you to your thoughts, though I trust that you have already decided.”
And with those words he left her, with his wife trailing after him, admonishing Anne to listen to her father, for he was a wise man and surely knew best.
“Sacrificed upon the altar of parental ambition!” Anne sighed. “It is either the King’s bed or a convent cot!”
“Nan, listen to me.” George went to her and lifted her down from the dressmaker’s stool. His hands lingered on her waist as hers did upon his shoulders as they stood close together, leaning into each other’s embrace. “I have been at court long enough to know that it is the chase that delights him most, so lead him, Nan, and lead him long; resist and run until he wearies. His interest will wane, and he will turn his eyes towards a different, and easier quarry. He is not the most patient of men, and there are women aplenty who line his path ready to throw themselves at his feet.”
“Aye, my sweet brother, have no fear.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “Perseverance will outpace Ardent Desire. I will give Henry Tudor the run of his life!”
“I know you will, Nan.” He smiled. “There’s none who can match you, Nan, none!”
Seeing them standing there, so close, so lost in one another, made my blood boil. By now I was well accustomed to these displays of tenderness and intimacy. I used to watch them, as vigilant as a hawk. The way they walked together, talked together, danced, sat with their heads together whispering confidences, composing songs and sonnets with their pens scratching over parchment, or bent over their lutes; the way they touched hands, embraced, and kissed; the way George’s hands would linger at her waist when he lifted Anne down from her horse; and the way sometimes of an evening or a rainy day by the hearthside he would lay his head in her lap and she would lean down with her hair forming an ebony curtain around him…they looked like lovers. It was as if they were made to be together and, as blasphemous as it sounds, God had made a mistake when He made them brother and sister so that full passionate love between them was forbidden. I never saw, either before or since, such a strong devotion between two people. It was as if they were bonded together, fused, with a chain of unbendable, unbreakable links; nothing could divide them. Together they were whole and complete, but apart something vital was lacking. Was everyone else blind? Why was I the only one who could see it?
“If I did not know better, I would swear you two were lovers!” I shouted at them. But even as the words were upon my lips I wondered, did I really know better? Did I? Then I ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me just as hard as I could.
George followed me and caught hold of my wrist. “What are you about?” he demanded angrily.
“You seem overeager to defy your father’s wishes, George. You dislike the thought of Anne in the King’s bed!” I charged with eyes blazing.
“She will find little happiness there,” he answered.
“And her happiness is very important to you.” I nodded knowingly. “Or should I say that it is everything to you? Tell me, George, would that not be more apt?”
He frowned at me. “Do not quibble words with me, Jane. You