I was remembering that she had been married to him for many years. Her youth was over; she looked years older than the King. I thought of all she must have suffered through those miscarriages which had failed to produce the longed-for son. And now she saw him pursuing one of her attendants—myself—and at an entertainment given in honor of her nephew's enemies.
From what I knew of her, her heart was still in Spain. When she spoke of her mother, it was with reverence. I knew she thought often of her childhood, which must have been happy in spite of that stern Spanish Court, because of the love she bore her mother. She had suffered because of the madness of her sister Joanna who had been Queen of Spain and had grown madder when her handsome husband had died. He had cared little for her but she had loved him in her wild, mad way to such a degree that she had his dead body put into a glass case and she carried it around with her wherever she went. Then with the ascendancy of her nephew Charles—a man meant to become a great monarch if anyone was— Katharine felt that her fortunes were going as her mother, Queen Isabella, would have wished. And with the betrothal of her daughter Mary to him, she had been content. But how quickly life changed. Friends of today were enemies of tomorrow. Those whom men loved one day they wanted to be rid of the next.
I felt very sorry for the Queen and I wished it were any but myself whom she must watch being pursued by her faithless husband.
I was glad when the dance was over.
The entertainment must not stop. There would be singing and perhaps we would dance again.
I sang a song, the words of which had been written by one of the Court poets and set to music by another. I knew the King's eyes never left my face as I sang.
He led the applause and then declared he would sing.
“Your Grace,” cried someone, it might have been Norris or Weston, I was not sure. “I crave your pardon, but might I ask a favor?”
The King was all smiles, knowing what was coming. It had happened so often before.
“Could I make the plea that Your Grace will sing one of your own songs?”
Henry appeared to be reluctant. There was a chorus: “Please, Your Grace…on such an occasion.”
“There is a little thing I have recently composed,” he said, smiling happily, and again I felt that twinge of gentleness; his childish vanity seemed so incongruous with all the pomp and ceremony which surrounded him.
He had a pleasant voice and he accompanied himself on the lute which he played with excellence; if we had not had poets at Court like Thomas Wyatt, his verses would have aroused genuine admiration for their skill. Of course they were declared the finest in the Court, but even he must know that it was the aura of royalty which made them so.
I felt again that rush of tenderness. In spite of everything, he looked a little vulnerable, as though pleading with the Court to like his song.
He was singing for me, and the words sent a shiver through me.
Does not the sun dazzle the clearest eyes
And melt the ice and make the frost retire?
The hardest stones are pierced through with tools
The wisest are with Princes made but fools.
The song finished, he laid his lute on his knees and looked ahead of him—his usually rosy cheeks a deeper shade, a special shine in his eyes.
The applause rang out. People were talking all at once.
“A new song, Your Grace. It was beautiful. The music…”
“My own,” said the King.
I did not join in the applause. I sat wondering about the intent behind those words.
“The wisest are with Princes made but fools.” What did he mean? That I was a fool to think myself wise enough to resist him? Did he mean that he would force me into the position he had chosen for me? I could not believe that. I was beginning to understand a little of his character. I knew of the boyish vanity and that strong streak of romance. If I clung to my determination, surely he would never threaten me.
Others sang. Thomas gave them one of his latest poems set to music. A love song which had also been written for me. I wondered if the King knew. He did not look very pleased. Was that because he knew it was for me or because the verses were so much better than his own?
Now there was dancing. The King would be the first to select the lady of his choice, and others would follow.
He was making his way toward me. I closed my eyes and when I opened them I was looking into those blue ones.
My first thought was: God help me. This is serious. He is making his preference known.
He held out his hand. I put mine in his and he held it firmly, smiling at me.
He said: “This night I shall dance with none other.”
I did not answer.
“I want all the world to know that it is you I honor,” he went on.
“It is gracious of you…”
“Oh, Anne,” he said, “have done with this game. I know you are not like the others. I know you hold yourself dear… but not more dear than I do. You have but to ask and whatever it is shall be yours. Only love me as I love you.”
“Your Grace, I cannot. I have explained. I am still of the same mind, and shall remain so.”
“Didst like my song?”
I was silent and he pressed my hand more firmly. “The company did,” he said, almost pleading with me to compliment him.
“The company will always applaud Your Grace.”
“You did not like it?”
“It scanned well. The rhyming was excellent.”
“Then what?”
I would be bold. It might well be that I should offend him and that he would be done with me forever. Perhaps a return to Hever would be preferable to what he was insisting on.
“I do not think the wise can ever be made fools,” I said.
“And the sun does not dazzle?”
“The sun dazzles but it does not change opinions.”
“You would instruct us then?”
“I crave Your Grace's pardon. I thought you asked for my opinion, otherwise I would not have presumed to give it.”
“I am grieved that you did not like my song.”
“There was much that I liked in it.”
“Oh … have done. There are matters of which we two must talk. You know for long I have loved you…ever since you were a saucy girl in your father's garden, you have plagued me. I find little satisfaction in others. And now there is no peace for me at all, and there will not be until you give me that which I crave.”
“Your Grace must forgive me. I am only a simple girl.”
“You… simple! Oh no, Mistress Anne Boleyn, not that. You are wise, are you not? One of those who will not be made fools by princes?”
“Not wise, but I am as I am, and no one could make me other.”
“You are determined to plague me.”
“I would I could please you.”
“Oh Anne, my Anne, it would be so simple.”
“Not for me, Your Grace. I think the Queen needs me. She is looking my way.”
“But I need you.”
“I am one of the Queen's ladies, Your Grace.”
“You are my subject. Forget not that.”
“It is a truth I cannot forget.”
“Come, come. You have been shy long enough. By God's Holy Mother, I love you. None other will do for me. I want your answer.”
“Your Grace, you have had my answer.”
“That you love me not?”
“That I love my honor and I would rather die than give it up. I will be no man's mistress.”
I could see the anger in his face—the spoiled boy who had rarely been denied what he wanted since he came to kingship, and I was frightened by the intensity of his desire for me.