Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (100 page)

W
ILLIAM AND
I
SLIPPED INTO A COMFORTABLE
routine which was almost domestic, though it revolved around the wishes of the king and of Anne. I still slept in her bed at night and to all intents and purposes lived with her in the rooms that we shared. To the outer world we were both still the queen’s ladies in waiting, no more and no less than the others.

But from morning to night Anne was with the king, as close to his side as a newly wed bride, as a chief counselor, as a best friend. She would return to our chamber only to change her gown or lie on the bed and snatch a rest while he was at Mass, or when he wanted to ride out with his gentlemen. Then she would lie in silence, like one who has dropped dead of exhaustion. Her gaze would be blank on the canopy of the bed, her eyes wide open, seeing nothing. She would breathe slowly and steadily as if she were sick. She would not speak at all.

When she was in this state I learned to leave her alone. She had to find some way to rest from the unending public performance. She had to be unstoppably charming, not just to the king but to everyone who might glance in her direction. One moment of looking less than radiant and a rumor storm would swirl around the court and engulf her, and engulf us all with her.

When she rose up from her bed and went to the king, William and I would spend time together. We met almost as strangers and he courted me. It was the oddest, simplest and sweetest thing that an estranged husband has ever done for an errant wife. He sent me little posies of flowers, sometimes sprigs of holly leaves and the rose-pink berries of yew. He sent me a little gilt bracelet. He wrote me the prettiest poems praising my gray eyes and my fair hair and asking for my favor as if I were his lady love. When I sent for my horse to ride out with Anne I would find a note tucked into my stirrup leather. When I pulled back my sheets to get into bed with Anne at night I would find a sweetmeat wrapped in gilt paper. He showered me with little gifts and little notes and whenever we were together at a court banquet or at the archery butts, or watching the players on the tennis court, he would lean toward me and whisper out of the side of his mouth:

“Come to my room, wife.”

I would giggle as if I were his new mistress instead of a wife of many years’ standing and I would step back from the crowd, and a few moments later he would slip away, to meet in the confined space of his bedchamber on the west wall of Greenwich Palace. Then he would take me in his arms and say delightfully, promisingly: “We have only a moment, my love, only an hour at the most: so this shall be all for you.”

He would lie me on the bed, unlace my tight stomacher, caress my breasts, stroke my belly, and pleasure me in every way he could think of until I cried out in joy: “Oh William! Oh my love! You are the best, you are the best, you are the very very best.”

And at that moment, with the smile of the well-praised man through all the ages, he would let himself pour into me and rest on my shoulder with a shuddering sigh.

For me it was desire, and only a small part calculation. If Anne should fall, and we Boleyns fall with her, then I would be very glad to have a husband who loved me and who had a handsome manor in Norfolk, a title and wealth. And besides, the children carried his name, and he could order them to his house at a moment’s notice if he so pleased. I would have told the devil himself that he was the best, the very very best, if it kept me with my children.

♦   ♦   ♦

Anne was merry at the Christmas feast. She danced as if nothing would stop her from dancing all day and all night. She gambled as if she had a queen’s fortune to lose. She had an understanding with me and with George; we immediately returned the money later, in private. But when she lost to the king her hard-earned money disappeared into the royal purse and was never seen again. And she had to lose to him whenever they played: he hated it when anyone else won.

He showered her with gifts and with honor, he led her out at every dance. She was the crowned queen in every masque. But still Katherine sat at the head table and smiled on Anne as if the honor was in her gift, as if Anne was her deputy, by her consent. And the Princess Mary, the little thin white-faced princess, sat beside her mother and smiled at Anne as if she were enormously amused at this light-footed pretender to the throne.

“God, I hate her,” Anne said, as she was getting undressed at night. “She is the very image of them both, the moon-faced thing.”

I hesitated. There was no point in arguing with Anne. Princess Mary had grown to be a girl of rare prettiness, with a face so filled with character and determination that you could not doubt for a moment that she was her mother’s daughter through and through. When she looked down the hall at Anne and at me it was
as if she looked straight through us, as if we were nothing but clear panes of Venetian glass and all she wanted to know was what might be beyond. She did not seem to envy us, nor see us as rivals to her father’s attention or even as a danger to her mother’s place. She saw us as a pair of light women, so insubstantial that the wind might blow us away in a merciful puff.

She was a witty girl, only eleven years old but capable of making a pun or turning a jest in English, French, Spanish or Latin. Anne was quick and a scholar, but she had not had the teaching of this little princess and she envied her that too. And the girl had all of her mother’s presence. Whether or not Anne ever became queen she had been born and bred to be a snapper-up of privilege and place. Princess Mary had been born to rights that we could only dream of. She had an assurance that neither of us could ever learn. She had a grace that came from absolute confidence in her position in the world. Of course Anne hated her.

“She’s nothing,” I said comfortingly. “Let me brush your hair.”

There was a quiet tap at the door and George slid into the room before we could call out “Enter.”

“I’m in a terror of being seen by my wife,” he said by way of excuse. He waved a bottle of wine at us and three pewter cups. “She’s been dancing and she’s hot tonight. She all but ordered me to our bed. If she saw me come in here she’d be wild.”

“She’s bound to have seen you.” Anne took a glass of George’s wine. “She misses nothing, that woman.”

“She should have been a spy. She would have loved to have been a spy specializing in fornication.”

I giggled and let him pour me a measure of wine. “Wouldn’t take much skill to track you down,” I pointed out. “You’re always in here.”

“It’s the only place I can be myself.”

“Not the whorehouse?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t go any more, I’ve lost my taste for it.”

“Are you in love?” Anne asked cynically.

To my surprise he glanced away and flushed. “Not I.”

“What is it, George?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Something and nothing. Something I cannot tell you and nothing I dare to do.”

“Someone at court?” Anne demanded, intrigued.

He pulled up a stool before the fire and looked deep into the embers. “If I tell you, then you must swear to tell no one.”

We nodded, absolutely sisters in our determination to know everything.

“More than that, you won’t even say anything to each other when I am gone. I don’t want your comments behind my back.”

This time we hesitated. “Swear to not even talk among ourselves?”

“Yes, or I say nothing.”

We hesitated, and then curiosity overcame us. “All right,” said Anne, speaking for us both. “We swear.”

His young handsome face crumpled and he buried his face into the rich sleeve of his jacket. “I’m in love with a man,” he said simply.

“Francis Weston,” I said at once.

His silence told me that I had guessed right.

Anne’s face was one of stunned horror. “Does he know?”

He shook his head, still buried among the rich red velvet of his embroidered sleeve.

“Does anyone else know?”

Again his brown head shook.

“Then you must never give any hint of it, never tell anyone,” she ordered him. “This must be the first and last time you speak
of it to anyone, even to us. You must cut him out of your heart and mind and never even look at him again.”

He looked up at her. “I know it’s hopeless.”

But her advice was not for his benefit. “You endanger me,” she said. “The king’ll never marry me if you bring shame to us.”

“Is that it?” he demanded, in sudden rage. “Is that all that matters? Not that I am in love and tumbled like a fool into sin. Not that I can never be happy, married to a snake and in love with a heartbreaker, but only,
only,
that Mistress Anne Boleyn’s reputation must be without blemish.”

At once she flew at him, her hands spread like claws, and he caught her wrists before she could rake his face. “Look at me!” she hissed. “Didn’t I give up my only love, didn’t I break my heart? Didn’t you tell me then that it was worth the price?”

He held her away but she was unstoppable. “Look at Mary! Didn’t we take her from her husband and me from mine? And now you have to give up someone too. You have to lose the great love of your life, as I have lost mine, as Mary lost hers. Don’t whimper to me about heartbreak, you murdered my love and we buried it together and now it is gone.”

George was struggling with her and I gripped her from behind, pulling her off him. Suddenly, the fight went out of her and the three of us stood still, like masquers forming a tableau, me hugging her waist, him holding her wrists, her stretched hands still inches from his face.

“Good God, what a family we are,” he said wonderingly. “Good God, what have we come to?”

“It’s where we’re going that matters,” she said harshly.

George met her gaze and nodded slowly, like a man taking an oath. “Yes,” he sighed. “I won’t forget.”

“You’ll give up your love,” she stipulated. “And never mention his name again.”

Again the defeated nod.

“And you’ll remember that nothing matters more than this, my road to the throne.”

“I’ll remember.”

I felt myself shudder, and I let go her waist. There was something in that whispered pledge that felt not like a pact with Anne but like a promise to the devil.

“Don’t say it like that.”

They both looked at me, the matching brown dark eyes of the Boleyns, the long straight noses, that impertinent quirky little mouth.

“It’s not worth life itself,” I said, trying to make light of it.

Neither of them smiled.

“It is,” Anne said simply.

A
NNE DANCED, RODE, SANG, GAMBLED, SAILED ON
the river, went picnicking, walked in the gardens and played in the tableau as if she had no care in the world. She grew whiter and whiter. The shadows under her eyes went darker and darker and she started to use powder to hide the hollows under her eyes. I laced her more and more loosely as she lost weight, and then we had to pad her gown to make her breasts show plump as they used to.

She met my eyes in the mirror as I was lacing her and she looked every inch the older sister. She looked years older than me.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered. Even her lips were pale.

“I warned you,” I said without sympathy.

“You’d have done the same if you had the wit and the beauty to hold him.”

I leaned forward so that my face was close to hers and she could see the bloom on my cheeks and my eyes bright, and my color high beside her own drawn fatigue. “I don’t have wit or beauty?” I repeated.

She turned to the bed. “I’m going to rest,” she said ungraciously. “You can go.”

I saw her into bed, and then I went out, running down the
stone stairs to the gardens outside. It was a wonderful day, the sun was bright and warm and the light was sparkling on the river. The little boats plying across the river wove in and out of the bigger ships waiting for the tide to set sail for the sea. There was a light wind coming upriver and it brought the smell of salt and adventure into the well-kept garden. I saw my husband walking with a couple of men on the lower terrace and I waved at him.

At once, he excused himself and came toward me, resting one foot on the flight of steps and looking up at me.

“How now, Lady Carey? I see you are as beautiful as ever this day.”

“How are you, Sir William?”

“I am well. Where is Anne, and the king?”

“She’s in her room. And the king is going out to ride.”

“So are you at liberty?”

“As a bird in the sky.”

He smiled at me, his secret knowing smile. “May I have the pleasure of your company? Shall we take a little walk?”

I went down the steps toward him, enjoying the sensation of his eyes on me. “Certainly.”

He drew my hand into the crook of his arm and we walked along the lower terrace, he matched his pace to mine and leaned toward me to whisper in my ear. “You are the most delicious thing, my wife. Tell me we don’t have to walk for too long.”

I kept my face forward but I could not help but giggle. “Anyone who saw me come from the palace will know I have been in the garden for no more than half a moment.”

“Oh but if you are obeying your husband,” he pointed out persuasively. “An admirable thing in a wife.”

“If you order me,” I suggested.

“I do,” he said firmly. “I absolutely command you.”

I caressed the fur trim of his doublet with the back of my hand. “Then what can I do but obey?”

“Excellent.” He turned and guided us in by one of the little garden doors and the moment it was shut behind us he took me in his arms and kissed me, and then led me up to his bedroom where we made love for all of the afternoon while Anne, the lucky Boleyn girl, the favored Boleyn girl, lay sick with fear on her spinster bed.

♦   ♦   ♦

That evening there was an entertainment and a dance. Anne as usual had the leading part and I was one of the dancers. Anne was paler than ever, white-faced in a silver gown. She was such a ghost of her former beauty that even my mother noticed. She summoned me with a crook of her finger from where I was waiting to say my piece in the play and dance my dance.