The Nymph from Heaven, page 64
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
“His Eminence will see you now, My Lord,” said the boy. Sir Thomas rose and followed the page through several sumptuously decorated rooms until at last they arrived in a bright, lavishly furnished chamber with a grand view of the garden.
“Sir Thomas!” cried Wolsey jovially. “Come in, come in! Please, do be seated.”
“Your Grace,” said Sir Thomas, bowing as slightly as proper decorum required. The two men exchanged the customary pleasantries and then Sir Thomas said, with a catch in his throat, “What is to be done about this business with young Percy, then?”
Wolsey steepled his fingers and pursed his lips. “Yes, a most unfortunate business.”
Suddenly, Sir Thomas could stand it no longer. “Wolsey, what in God’s name was the silly wench thinking? To engage in a public flirtation without my knowledge or consent! Stupid, stupid, girl!” And now the chit may well have brought all his careful plans to naught! Damn the irresponsible dallyings of a frivolous child! Sir Thomas wrung his hands.
“Well, as you know, young Percy is my ward,” Wolsey replied. He cared not a fig for Sir Thomas or any Boleyn; but this unfortunate affair of his ward and the Boleyn girl touched his own career in two ways, either of which could bring him unwanted trouble. For the young Percy heir to have behaved in such a manner whilst under his aegis reflected badly upon his suitability as a warder; and the king had already approved the Butler marriage and was expecting results. In fact, Henry had been so enthusiastic about the idea of solving what had been a prickly problem that Wolsey was loath to inform the king of the blunder concerning his ward and the Boleyn girl.
“I have written to Northumberland,” Wolsey continued. “The earl had some pressing business to attend to with the Earl of Shrewsbury that prevented his coming straight away, but it was well worth the delay. He is now on his way here from the north, and he has informed me by swift messenger that he has arranged a marriage between young Harry and Mary Talbot, that is, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s eldest daughter. It is a good match, and one that has been mooted previously several times between them.” He might yet be able to resolve the situation without involving the king. If he were successful, Boleyn would owe him a favor, and that was always a desirable state of affairs.
“Has the boy been informed?” asked Sir Thomas.
Wolsey raised his mug and sipped his ale. Despite rising to such lofty heights, he had never lost his taste for good English ale. “Not yet,” he replied. “I was going to let his father do that, preferably after they have left court.”
“Good, good,” said Sir Thomas. “And what of Anne?”
“I think it would be best for Harry Percy to depart for the north before we inform Mistress Anne of the plans for the Butler marriage. What have you told the girl?”
Sir Thomas’ eyes shifted nervously. “Nothing, except that marriages of the nobility require royal approval, and that she must be silent on the issue of her understanding with Percy until she is told to do otherwise. Fortunately, her behavior once she arrived back in England was more circumspect than it had been while she was traveling in France. Few at court even know of their understanding, and those who do have been advised to keep silent.”
“And how did she take that advice?”
Sir Thomas grunted. He recalled his conversation with Anne upon her arrival at Hever the month before. She had expected him to be pleased with the news that she had reached an understanding with Harry Percy, pleased that she had pledged herself to him and that she was to be Countess of Northumberland. His first reaction had been one of sheer panic; but he was a skilled diplomat and knew that the less said in any crisis, the better. He decided that he would continue with his plans to take Anne to court to wait upon the queen, a position that he had obtained for the girl at not a little inconvenience to himself, and then he would consult with the all-knowing cardinal about what was to be done. “She was encouraged, believing she has made a good match for herself.”
“And where is she now?”
“She waits upon the queen.”
“Did you know that she meets with, speaks with, Harry Percy at every opportunity?”
Sir Thomas looked up, exasperated. “But I expressly forbade her…”
“…to see him or speak with him until the matter was resolved. Yes. Well, I can assure you that such has not been the case,” said Wolsey. “Percy finds excuses daily to be in, or near, the queen’s apartments, and while there, he and your daughter spend much time whispering in corners and stealing kisses. I think it would be wise to send the girl away from court as soon as possible.”
Sir Thomas longed to cry, “But she has only just arrived!” But he knew it would be useless to rail against fate. He had had such hopes of his girls, and just look at them! Mary had disgraced herself at two courts; Anne had had a golden opportunity with the position in the queen’s household that he had procured for her, but now must sacrifice it, at least for the time being. And all of his dreams of the Ormonde earldom in the balance, hanging fire until they knew for certain whether or not Sir Piers had caught wind of the scandal.
Sir Thomas twisted his cap in his hands. “Think you that the Butler marriage is safe?” What he would do if it were not he did not dare to contemplate.
“I have heard nothing to the contrary, but we cannot be certain what Sir Piers may have heard,” said Wolsey. “We are still awaiting word of his decision on the proposal. I am afraid we will just have to wait and see. If we do otherwise, we might tip our hand. That is why I believe it best to send the girl from court, before any more trouble can be brewed.”
Sir Thomas heaved a sigh. Both of his girls had disappointed him greatly. “I suppose you are right,” he said. “I will see to it.”
“I believe that to be the most prudent course of action,” said Wolsey. Your wife is at Hever, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Well, send the girl there,” said Wolsey. “Go to the queen. Inform Her Majesty that your wife is ill, and needs a daughter to care for her. See that the girl departs quickly, with as little fuss as possible.”
Sir Thomas sighed. “And the king? Does he know aught of this?”
“Not yet. He has been, as you know, from the court, playing at soldiers with Brandon.” Wolsey smiled an indulgent smile. He tended to look upon Henry as his own son, so fond of him was he. There was much he admired in the king; just like himself, when Henry’s interest in something was piqued, he had to see to things himself. All things to do with war fascinated the king, and so he was off drilling troops with Brandon near Woodstock, and so far knew nothing of the Percy-Boleyn debacle. If debacle it was; if only Sir Piers had not received news of the scandal, Wolsey might be able to salvage the Butler-Boleyn match and all might yet be well. If not, well then, both he and Sir Thomas Boleyn would have some explaining to do!
Hever Castle, Kent, May 1523
Anne sat in the window seat, her hand frozen in mid-stitch above her embroidery frame, her eyes glazed and fixed upon some distant point out in the garden. The servants often observed her in such a posture and had learnt to tiptoe quietly past whatever room she was in when this strange spell took her.
She had been like this for months now, ever since the letter from Harry Percy had arrived. In it he had informed her of his pending marriage to Mary Talbot. The letter was an angry blast, reviling Wolsey, his father, even the king. Anne had wanted desperately to keep the missive, knowing that Harry’s hands had touched the paper, certain that the discolorations on the parchment were where his tears had fallen on it as he wrote it; but she dared not. She would have been beaten within an inch of her life if her father knew that she had received any letters from Harry; she was allowed no correspondence or contact of any kind with him. Without the quick thinking of her faithful maid, she would not have had this one. But the letter was filled with such vitriol against men in high places that she knew that burning it was the only safe option, both for her own sake and Harry’s.
In the end, she had sadly committed the letter to the flames, keeping only a fragment of the last page with his signature on it; this she sewed into the lining of the little silk reticule that hung from a cord at her waist. When she was alone she would slip it out and touch it. She did not need to read the letter in any case; she knew every word of it by heart. In it Harry told her that he loved her, would always love her, and would remain faithful to her. She mourned over that statement; by the time she received the letter last fall, Harry must have been married to the Talbot woman for weeks. She knew that he had had no choice, and she forgave him. She knew that his title, his lands, his very life had been threatened if he did not acquiesce.
But then a strange thing happened. Bits of news still dribbled in now and then from court, and one of the bits that her maid had gleaned from the servant of a monk from Westminster Abbey, who was passing through Kent and begging hospitality at the castle, was odd indeed, and very heartening. It seemed that after several months of marriage, Mary Talbot had tearfully and loudly proclaimed that Harry Percy was no husband to her, and she had left him and gone home to her family. So Harry had kept his vow! The news had made her so happy that she made her own vow; she would follow Harry’s example and remain as faithful to him as he was to her. If Harry’s marriage was not consummated, perhaps the Talbots would demand an annulment, and Harry would be free, free to marry once again. It was a heady thought.
And then, even that frail hope had died an untimely death, for shortly afterwards her father had swooped in from court to inform her, with great gladness, that she was now betrothed to James, the son of Sir Piers Butler of Ireland, and would be Countess of Ormonde. As soon as the arrangements could be made she would be on her way to Ireland to be married.
From that day onward she had often contemplated throwing herself into the moat but had finally thought better of it; she wanted to live, to somehow, some way, wreak vengeance upon all who had parted her from Harry. She prayed to God vehemently, intensely, for deliverance from this bitter cup. There was no room in her desperate pleas to God for “Thy will be done…”; it was always “somehow, some way, make it not happen…”
When it became clear that no such deliverance was forthcoming from the Almighty and that to Ireland and the Butler marriage she was soon to go, Anne changed her tack. She made a new vow that regardless of what happened, even if she had to go into a convent, she would never, ever, marry James, the son of Sir Piers Butler.
She would pretend to go along with these Irish marriage plans, try to seem cooperative, even happy. For she knew that there always came a moment at the very altar when one was asked, “Do you?” and at that moment she would shout to the rafters, “I do not!” When the question was asked if anyone knew of any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in the honorable state of holy matrimony, she would declare loudly that she was precontracted to Harry Percy.
If all else failed, she would seek sanctuary in the church and declare her vocation. All who knew her agreed that she was clever; she could rise to Prioress, even Abbess, perhaps, and then she would plan her revenge. As to just how she was to effect that revenge she wasn’t quite certain; she would find a way.
But as the weeks dragged on and daily her trousseau took shape, she began to lose just a little bit of faith. Perhaps she wasn’t praying hard enough, long enough…certainly her supplications were sincere enough! And then the thought struck her that perhaps she might be praying to the wrong deity. One day she went into the woods and fell to her knees, begging Satan himself to come to her aid. I’ll do anything, she had declared to the earth, sun and sky, give you anything, only save me…
And then suddenly the news came that the Irish marriage was not to be. Sir Thomas had been furious, riding into the courtyard at Hever with a clatter, tossing his reins to a startled groom, throwing the great studded oak door open with a fearful bang and shouting “Anne Boleyn!” at the top of his voice. He had seized her by the neck and shaken her so hard that she saw dark spots in front of her eyes; it had taken the combined strength of both her mother and her brother George, the only ones who would dare approach Sir Thomas when he was in such a rage, to pull him off of her before murder was done.
Finally, they had calmed him and the full story came out. In the first message from Sir Piers, he had reluctantly agreed to a match between his son and the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn. The Irishman’s ungracious words had made it plain that only his desire to stay in the King of England’s good graces had swayed him to mate his ancient lineage with such chaff as the Boleyns, Howard connection be damned. It was enough; that was what had inspired Sir Thomas’ first, ecstatic ride from London with the news that Anne was to marry, and that she and James Butler would have bestowed upon them the earldom of Ormonde as their wedding gift from the king. Sir Thomas had departed the next day for the court in high good humor, leaving his womenfolk busily engaged in preparing Anne’s wedding clothes.
And then a second message had reached Sir Thomas upon his return to London. Sir Piers had been informed of the recent scandal concerning Mistress Boleyn and a certain Harry Percy. In his estimation, there was every possibility that the young lady had surrendered her virtue to the Percy boy, based on the reports he had heard; he was unwilling for the marriage to take place under these circumstances; and on good grounds. He was sorry, but…
Sir Thomas knew that this was just the sort of excuse Sir Piers had been hoping for to call off the match; he knew that even the King of England himself could not insist on the marriage in such circumstances. Had Lord Butler been in England, then perhaps he could have been persuaded…but he was in Ireland and beyond the king’s immediate reach. Besides, to beg would be most unseemly; and that was that. The king was sorry, but…
And the result had been Sir Thomas’ unexpected arrival at Hever in the worst temper in which any of them had ever seen him. He had broken the news that was, to him, shattering, throttled the perceived cause of the whole debacle, Anne, stayed the night and long enough the next day to thoroughly berate Lady Boleyn for ever giving birth to two such ungrateful wretches as his daughters, and had left in a tear for London with George in tow.
Soon after, Lady Boleyn had also returned to court, leaving Anne alone and banished to Hever indefinitely. The Christmas season had come and gone quietly, and Anne had settled down to her solitary existence. The servants would often see her, like a pale, forlorn apparition, gliding sadly among the bare trees and the dusting of snow that covered the ground that winter, crying for her lost love and mourning for what might have been.
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught Anne’s attention and she came out of her trance. She peered at the moving mass that was making its sedate way up the lime walk; it was a group of riders. Another look and Anne was on her feet and running. Mary was home! And she was bound to have news of the court. And perhaps of Harry…
By the time Anne reached the courtyard, Mary had dismounted and the servants were unloading her baggage.
“Mary!” shouted Anne, lifting her skirts and running the last few yards. Mary opened her arms and Anne flew into them. “Oh, sister, it is so good to see you! What do you here? What news?”
As Anne drew away to look at her sister, suddenly Mary’s face crumpled and she began to cry. Great, shaking sobs racked her; she covered her face with her hands. All the way home she had had to be brave in front of the servants. But at last she was home, and could give vent to her heartbreak. And Anne was her sister, after all….
“Mary!” exclaimed Anne. “What is it? What has happened? What is wrong?” The garden, thought Anne; it was near and it was private. As they sat together in the May sunshine, Mary told Anne the sad story through her tears.
“Oh, Anne,” said Mary, whose breakdown had now calmed to hiccoughs and broken gasps. “It…it was s-so horrible. Henry…the king…Henry was so angry with me I thought he would murder me. He shook me and shook me until I thought my eyes would leave my head…”
Anne remembered her own shaking at their father’s hands, and shuddered involuntarily. Men were so strong, and women were so defenseless… “But why?” she asked.
“Oh, Anne, please do not take this amiss, for I know this was none of your doing…”
“My doing?” asked Anne incredulously. “What has your row with the king to do with me?”
“It was the scandal about your handfasting to Harry Percy. Tongues began to wag, Anne, bringing up all the old gossip about my…about what happened in France. Anne, I was so young! I was led astray by the lechers and roués of the French court. And then, I don’t know, mayhap Henry was right to call me whore…”
Mary’s mind drifted back to the night of their quarrel, the night Henry had broken with her and banished her from court. All the old tales of her behavior in France had been spurred by the scandal of Anne’s understanding with Harry Percy. The two had handfasted without the knowledge or consent of either party’s parents or warders; there were those who had observed their behavior during the last days at the French court, and on the road to Calais, and had noted the absences of the couple when anyone who might have chaperoned them were present. What had the two young lovers been about? After all, they said, if Anne Boleyn was anything like her sister Mary…Some gave voice to their suspicions in graphic detail, and soon the whole court was speculating wildly as to what form the expression of such passionate lovers had taken when there were no prying eyes about. It was these rumors that had been carried back to Ireland by Sir Piers’ spies at the English court.
In an unguarded moment, one of the king’s Gentlemen of the Bedchamber, who had left just such a gossip session to wait upon the king, and who was more in his cups than he ought to have been, asked the king how he enjoyed the unique talents he had heard Mary Boleyn had learnt at the French court, and that her sister Anne was rumored to have tried on Sir Harry Percy. How else could a humble knight’s daughter, and a not very good looking one at that, have nabbed such a prize as the heir to Northumberland, he wanted to know? And wasn’t it a shame about the Butler marriage? The chamberlain never realized that it was he who had caused the upheaval between the king and his mistress.
