At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (9 page)

Cate took every chance to warn Madge of the king’s change of heart.

“They say he has already taken up with another young maid, this one pretty as a peach,” said Cate, her voice not at all unhappy with this news.

“You are wrong, good Cate. The queen will hold him—you’ll see,” said Madge as Cate helped her out of her sleeves and into a clean nightdress of soft linen. Dressed in her shift and night-bonnet, Madge sat near the fire.

“Has Norris bothered you of late, my Maddie?” said Cate.

“He’s been made Groom of the Stool and is in much demand from the king. Luckily, I see him rarely,” said Madge.

“And Sir Churlish?” Cate asked.

“Humph. I care not a whit to see him—he, too, has absented himself from court these last three weeks. Fears the sweats, I’ll warrant—probably running like a scared rabbit!” said Madge.

“Or like the king,” said Cate.

Both women laughed. They knew how the king loathed disease and how he paced and worried these summer days, stuck in London during the season of plague and sickness.

*   *   *

On her way to the queen’s bedchamber, Madge caught sight of movement in the queens’s privy chamber. The ladies had bedded down in their rooms and Madge knew the queen was already in her silk nightdress, a glass of warm goat’s milk by her bed. Her Majesty had dismissed Madge for one hour while she made her prayers and read from her Book of Hours. Late at night, though it was against the usual rules, the queen often sent Madge from her side, saying she needed a respite from the demands of being in sight of everyone all day long. Because of her condition, the king allowed it, giving Madge a warning that if anything befell the queen and the unborn prince, Madge would be held responsible. Madge remembered the cold look in his eye as His Majesty growled the words at her.

She strained to see who was in the chamber as all the candles had been snuffed for the night. She could hear movement, the rustle of silk skirts, a masculine murmur. Suddenly, she spied a large shape by the windowpane. Even in the darkened room, she could tell it was the king. He was the tallest, most muscular man at court and there was no mistaking his size or shape. A much smaller figure was pressed up against him, a woman. Madge could not see who she was. Madge hurried through the chamber into the queen’s inner rooms. Her head spun.

Could Cate’s gossip be true? Could the king have tired of the queen so quickly? And the queen, ready to give birth to the prince? Madge could feel the heat rush to her face. He was a monster! A beast!

When she arrived at the queen’s bedchamber, Madge was glad Her Majesty was asleep. How small she looked in that massive bed of hers! Even grown heavy with child, the queen seemed no bigger than a young maid. Madge crawled into her truckle bed and pulled up her coverlet. She would not speak of what she had seen. Best for the queen to rest easy until the young prince arrived.

*   *   *

As the court frolicked during the warmth of summer, though the weather was never so warm as to be without one’s overcoat, lords and ladies staved off boredom with various sports and games. After a brief day of mourning for the death of Lady Suffolk, Brandon’s wife and sister of the king (who had died on the day of Anne’s coronation, though weeks passed before the king got word of his sister’s demise), the frivolities resumed easily. Almost daily, the king and queen attended jousts at the tiltyard, with the king often participating. His favorite jousting partner, the excellent Sir Nicholas Carew, broke many a shield and suffered various cuts and bruises. The king wore green and white, the Tudor colors, and carried his wife’s token as he strove valiantly against Sir Nicholas.

Like Catherine before her, the queen watched as the king performed his wondrous feats of skill in various sports. His Majesty was particularly good at tenes and the joust. He loved archery so much he made it a law that every man in the land should own and practice with a longbow in case of foreign invasion. Wrestling and hawking amused him, especially hawking, which he had just started to enjoy in his midyears. Of course, the hunt was everything for the king. For indoor entertainments, which Henry could play with the queen, games of dice such as Hazard, Trey, Gobot, and Quenes were the favorites. Her Majesty and Madge loved to play at cards together and Madge had become especially good at Primero, a game for which the king cared nothing. The queen excelled in All Fours and gambled much money, which the king supplied.

“Come, Lady Margaret, let us go to the lists and watch the king, my husband, unseat that long-legged, dour-faced Nicholas Carew!” said the queen as she clapped her dainty hands together, the long lace of her sleeve fluttering like a tiny flag.

“Must we, Your Grace? I tire of the king’s breaking of lances. Would you not rather stay here for a quick game of Noddy or Trump?” said Madge as she stood at the queen’s gaming table and shuffled the gilded playing cards.

“I tire of the king’s mock battles, too, little one,” the queen whispered in Madge’s ear. Then she said loudly, “Tire of the king’s fun?! How dare you even voice such a thought, you slovenly wench,” the queen said as she slapped her hands together so it would seem as if she had disciplined Madge severely. It was a frequent charade played out by the queen when the two cousins were alone in the bedchamber. To the court, Her Majesty had one face; but to Madge, the queen was more of her true self, much as she was when her brother, Viscount Rochford, came to court.

“Yes, my queen,” said Madge, smiling at Her Grace.

Madge picked up the queen’s train and together they proceeded from the bedchamber. Madge knew the king, though he visited his wife nightly in her private rooms, no longer shared her bed. The queen had explained that such behavior was seemly because both she and the king desired the birth of the young prince more than anything. Neither would risk jeopardizing a smooth, timely delivery. Madge imagined the king knew his wife’s temperament well enough to realize she must be shown great attention as her lying-in approached.

As the queen proceeded to the tiltyard, the other ladies-in-waiting followed her. Madge thought them all lovely and smiling this midsummer day with the exception of Lady Jane Seymour, who looked as if she smelled a sour odor.

As Madge passed by the lonely looking girl, she smiled at her. Lady Seymour did not return her smile but lifted her chin a bit higher. Though Madge had tried several times to befriend Lady Seymour, all her efforts were rebuffed. Still, Madge pitied the young woman who hadn’t yet married, though she had a large dower and fine family. It was her plain face that drew no suitor, and her quiet way—it seemed the life had gone out of her. The gentlemen at court often called her “Plain Jane” behind her back, but Madge heard them. Henry Norris had said the rhyme boldly to Madge, as if his wit could help him press his suit. Madge thought him merely cruel and lacking in any true wit.

As Madge and the queen took to the stands, the king rode out on his favorite mount from Governatore’s bloodline, Trojan. Henry trotted to the queen’s booth, doffed his helmet, and bowed.

“My queen, I carry your colors today and would win for your honor and beauty,” said the king.

“I shall be your sweetheart, Your Majesty, as always,” answered the queen, smiling down at him with what seemed to be true affection. She patted her belly and added, “Our son wishes you care and Godspeed.”

The king then kissed Anne’s blue-and-purple kerchief and tucked it inside his armor next to his heart. As he did so, Madge caught sight of a flash of yellow within his suit, a silk rag already next to his heart. She knew then Cate’s gossip was true—the king had a lady love and it wasn’t the queen.

As the queen bade her ladies to sit, she grabbed Madge’s hand and squeezed until Madge thought her fingers would pop.

“Did you see that token already near my lord’s heart? Yellow, it was. The king has taken one of my maids, I’ll warrant. He shall not! He shall not!” whispered the queen.

Madge said nothing but looked straight ahead as the jousting began. Secretly, she hoped the king would topple off his mount and break his faithless neck! He had been struck before and suffered grave injury. Why not this day? But as the queen seemed to cool her ardor, Madge realized the king was the only person alive who could keep the queen safe. She had made enemies and too many lords and ladies supported old Queen Catherine, though not so boldly as before. Madge kept her ears to the wall to discover how the queen fared at court and was dismayed to find even her uncle, the duke of Norfolk, had become irritated with the queen’s sharp tongue and willful ways.

Madge considered the queen and why so many hated her. To the men at court, especially the old guard, the king had married beneath himself when he wed Boleyn’s daughter, whose family had been part of the new merchant class before the meteoric rise of their clan. Because the queen espoused the new religion and was well-read in such matters, Madge could see the queen’s own erudition stood against her. She dared to argue points of theology with the king himself—Madge had heard such discussions from her truckle bed. Her Majesty often won the battles, leaving the king huffing and in haste to leave the queen’s side. The noblemen and commoners in the north hated the destruction of a few abbeys and monasteries, though many people agreed with the king’s reforms. An equal number desired the old religion. Changes of all kinds shook the country and Queen Anne was blamed for everything.

The horns trumpeted as the king and Sir Nicholas faced each other in the tiltyard. The king looked resplendent in his armor, carrying his long spear and shield. He was a large man, though no taller than Sir Nicholas. But Sir Nicholas was thin and wiry—the best lancer in the land except the king himself. Madge felt sorry for the horses, carrying not only the men with their armor but also draped in armor of their own. Madge glanced at the queen. She was smiling, waving at the king, though her hands were clenched together and her eyes looked glassy as if she’d been crying. Madge knew the queen would never cry. She couldn’t afford for her enemies to guess anything was amiss between her and His Majesty.

Madge thought of the queen’s gaiety among the courtiers, the beautiful way she sang and played the virginals. She looked completely royal with her French hood and stylish clothes. When she danced, all eyes were on her. In the flickering torchlight, she moved with the grace of an angel and her dark hair flowed freely down her back. Not a man could resist such charm; even her enemies swayed under her spell, even Ambassador Chapuys, Catherine’s own man.

But though the queen held men enthralled, some seemed to resent even this. Her allure made them hate her all the more, Madge thought.

The thundering of hooves, the striking blows, the sound of splintering wood and shouts from the crowd as Sir Nicholas fell to the ground woke Madge out of her dream. The king rode toward them, his visor up. He was smiling, breathless.

“My queen, I have slain a villain in your name. I give you his life,” said the king, bowing courteously from his mount.

“Spare him, my lord,” the queen answered, her voice tight. She did not smile. “But remember, Your Majesty, that I may not always be so merciful.”

The king seemed confused by her tone and Madge watched as his cheeks colored. But he said nothing and rode over to speak with Sir Nicholas.

“I tire of this. Come along, Lady Margaret—I shall nap a while,” said the queen, smiling at her ladies and the few gentlemen standing among them. Her retinue stirred, ready to accompany the queen to her apartments. She raised her hand, saying, “No, no. Please stay and enjoy the merriment here. The little prince must rest but you need not stop your fun. Lady Margaret will fetch for me.” With that, the queen turned and Madge lifted her train. Together, they returned to the queen’s bedchamber.

Twelve

“I shall box his royal ears! I will not be used thus!” said the queen in an outraged whisper once they had returned to her chambers. She paced the floor, her tiny body seeming to shoot out fire with every step.

“Your Grace … Anne … you will upset your humors and those of the prince if you don’t calm yourself,” said Madge, trying to hold onto the queen’s arm to slow her furious stomping.

“I care not! I care not for anything but scratching out the eyes of the maid when I find out who she is! How dare he! How dare he betray me!” the queen said. Then, suddenly, the queen flung herself across her enormous bed and cried. Madge sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed the queen’s shoulders.

“Majesty, calm yourself. If His Majesty has taken a maid, it has nothing to do with you. I see how he comes to you each evening, saying good night and kissing your mouth. I see the tenderness in his eyes, dearest Anne. He loves you still,” said Madge in a soft voice.

“The king loves no one but the king,” said Her Majesty. She turned onto her back and looked at Madge. “There is no room for love at court, cousin. Remember that.”

“But His Majesty does love you—think of all he has done to have you as his wife,” said Madge.

“He has done it for this little prince I carry. He may have loved me once, but that love is gone—gone forever!” said the queen, crying once more.

“Perhaps the king finds a maid to satisfy his odious lusts, Your Grace. In your condition, this you can no longer do,” whispered Madge.

The queen paled. Her ladies knew better than to speak of such personal matters, though these concerns were common knowledge.

“That will be all, Lady Margaret. I will to bed,” said the queen, her tone imperious and angry. Madge curtsied and bowed low.

As Madge hurried down the stone hall to the great door leading to the rose gardens, she heard footsteps behind her. Then, a rough hand grabbed her elbow and whirled her around.

“It
is
you, coz! I thought that pretty red head must belong to someone I knew!” said George Boleyn. Madge gazed into his face, smooth shaven with even, well-formed features. His large blue eyes, so unlike those of the queen’s, bored into hers. He smiled as he bent to kiss her full on the lips.

“Lord Rochford, welcome,” Madge said, curtsying after she wrenched herself away from his eager embrace. “Has my favorite poet returned with you?”