Emily Purdy - The Tudor Wife

‘One can attract attention without bestowing one’s attentions, Sire. And, as you say, I am not my sister. I would never sell myself so cheaply.’

‘Cheaply?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Many would account it a great honor to be the mistress of a king!’

‘As Your Majesty rightfully observed, I am a rarity, the exception rather than the rule. Never would I sacrifice my honor for the brief, fleeting favor that can be found between the sheets of a royal bed.’

‘You are proud, Mistress Anne.’

‘Too proud to be plucked by a King and then discarded. A rose does not survive long once it has been plucked, and I will not, like some dried and wizened petals made into a potpourri, be parceled out as a gift to some obliging courtier, as my sister was to William Carey!’

King Henry just stared at her, pulses throbbing. There was a sharp snap as his fingers tightened round the stem of the crimson rose.

‘Roses are meant to be plucked, not to wither upon their stems, their petals by the winds and rains dispersed and trodden underfoot!’

‘That would depend, Sire, upon who does the plucking. I think it is not meet for someone to steal into a garden and take whatsoever he desires, like a thief in the night. Better that it be done lawfully, by one who has the right!’

‘It is not for roses to decide who plucks them! I look forward to seeing you at court, Mistress Anne.’

‘I thank Your Majesty for your kind invitation…’

‘It is not an invitation.’

‘It is a command?’

‘We understand each other perfectly. Good day, Mistress Anne.’ He extended the rose to her and, with a curt nod, left her.

With her left hand Anne tore the petals from the rose and flung them fiercely aside as her right hand did likewise with the stem; then, with a swirl of spring green skirts she turned and ran from the garden to lose herself in the maze where I dared not follow.

That night Anne kept to her chamber, ignoring her father’s repeated summons to come down to dine.

‘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.

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.’