True to his word, Francis had arranged for delightful entertainment, singers and mimes and jugglers and puppet masters, for the ladies who remained in Calais. And on October 24, I began to prepare Anne’s clothing and jewelry for the arrival of the men the following day.
My brothers arrived back from Boulogne arm in arm, which was an unexpected and worrisome sight. They soon parted ways, though, Thomas to the alehouse, Edmund to Cromwell’s offices. Henry had arranged for a three-thousand-shot salute to be fired as Francis arrived at Calais, and Francis bowed graciously in recognition of the honor. Francis sent a box to Anne, and I was with her when she opened it.
“Mon Dieu.” She lifted a stunning diamond out of a satin- encased box of gold. It was huge, an egg, and it held the attention of all in the room. “C’est magnifique.”
“’Tis worth thirty-five hundred pounds,” Lady Zouche declared, and we broke into fits of giggles.
“Have you been apprenticing with Master Hayes, the king’s jeweler?” I teased.
“Mayhap so.” Lady Zouche responded with a high-arched brow and we laughed again. “How else should I know if Lord Zouche does right by me of a New Year’s gift?”
Anne had her secretary write a note of thanks to Francis and sent it with an expensive illuminated manuscript, embossed in gold, with delicate, intricate designs and in blue ink made of carefully crushed stone. But Anne would not see Francis herself, not yet. That she had reserved for Henry’s great banquet a few days hence.
The banqueting hall had been magnificently decorated with finely woven Turkish tapestries as well as with cloth of tissue and cloth of silver. At each table were gold wreaths encrusted with precious stones and pearls and the room was lit by dozens of candleholders wrought finely by English silversmiths. Hundreds of beeswax tapers were lit and replaced as needed to keep the room in a warm hum.
We were but fifty courses into the night on two hundred French and English dishes that had been prepared before my dining companion excused himself. I glanced at Mary Howard and we hid our smiles. The good people of Calais did not pace themselves as courtiers knew to do for Henry’s many courses and often took sick partway through. The room was discontented, though, because Anne was nowhere to be seen. Of course I knew why.
Someone slipped in next to me. “I see your dining companion has abandoned you. I came to remedy that, if I am welcome.” It was Anthony.
“You are most welcome,” I replied warmly.
After the final course was cleared the trumpeter blew his horn. Anne and six of her ladies entered. Anne was finely dressed in cloth of gold with a shimmering, lacelike cloth of gold loosely draped over her gown. They were all masked, of course, I had seen to that; it was part of the tableaux. Anne’s sister, Mary Carey, was by her side, as was her sister-in-law, Lady Rochford; both women knew their fortunes now lay like gown and kirtle with Anne’s. Each lady chose a French man to dance with. Anne, of course, chose King Francis and stayed close with him all night, to Henry’s obvious envy.
I felt sorry, then, for the Duchesse d’Etampes, Francis’s official mistress, who was also present. For the look upon his face during that dance proved that Francis, too, found Anne irresistible, though she acted with perfect decorum.
After Anne had opened the dance floor the musicians struck up again and the rest of the guests danced in the great dance chamber. Henry immediately reclaimed Anne from Francis and unmasked her. I smiled at that. It was hard to keep my eyes off of Mary Howard and the Duke of Richmond as they were obviously besotted with one another. It recalled to mind my young love with Will Ogilvy.
Anthony claimed many dances with me and I even saw Anne and Lady Zouche take notice of this. We talked and laughed and though the conversations never went deep, I enjoyed his presence and humor. He was not classically handsome but the lightness of his face and the sprinkle of freckles across his pale skin were sweet.
We rested for a moment and he said, “I have fair lodgings here in the Exchequer. A warm fireplace, and I room alone.”
There was no question mark, and yet a question had been asked.
I held his gaze. He was a kind friend, a gentle man, soon to be married, who wanted nothing more than to share a few nights in the heated atmosphere of Calais. He assumed, wrongly, that I was no longer a maid, having been married for a number of years. For certes a mood of romance had been set these past weeks.
I felt the ache of my skin, which longed to be caressed. I tired of awakening in cool, lonely linens by myself. I had no one to share my midnight secrets with. I had never known the intimate pleasures that my sister, Alice, had promised awaited the bride of a good man.
And yet I could not. I would not. It was not right and, in truth, I did not want it. Not with Anthony.
I took his hand in mine. “I have fine rooms, too, Sir Anthony. But I am glad to know you are well lodged.”
He kissed my hand graciously and didn’t immediately slip away as a lesser man would have done, to find more willing arms, but kept company with me till the close of the evening.
By the time the night ended, all present had been convinced that there was no woman in our realm better suited than Anne to be the consort of our King Hal. She had grace, poise, wit, and a profound intelligence. And it had long been clear that Henry was willing to stake his kingdom for her.
One night shortly after Francis had returned to France, Anne had her chamber set up with fresh linens and flowers, had spiced wine and fine wafers brought in, and provoked a roaring fire. She gathered me and the Countess of Derby to her but dismissed all others. Shortly thereafter the king arrived with his groom of the stool and close friend of nearly twenty years, Henry Norris, along with a priest whom Anne had pointed out as having been a strong supporter of Luther.
I looked at Anne. She smiled and said nothing. Instead, Henry spoke.
“As all are aware, I am a legally unmarried man and the marquess is a legally unmarried woman. She and I, of our own accord, wish to become husband and wife. The good father here”—he indicated the priest—“has agreed to both perform the ceremony and to keep it secret till such time as I see fit to reveal it at court. I trust you’ll do the same.”
His eyes, wet and beady like a crayfish’s, bore into us. Which of us had the inner fortitude to disagree? It wasn’t I. I nodded my assent, as Anne knew I would.
The priest performed a short service. We witnessed it. Norris and the priest took their leave, as did the countess. I stayed for a moment to make sure that Anne’s robes were fit for her wedding night and just after.
“’Tis all satisfactory,” she said, steering me toward the door. The air crackled between them. “Thank you, My Lady.” It was not unkind, but Henry was not a patient man and he’d already waited nigh on six years.
I kissed her cheek and returned to my cold bed.
The next morning I arrived later than normal, expecting, rightly, that the king would be loath to take his leave. I helped a love-flushed and exultant Anne into the dressing chamber and then said, “I myself will look after your bedding, madam.” It was hard not to be envious of her just then, she having enjoyed the physical warmth and love the night before that I had denied myself.
I pulled the coverlet back and spied what I knew I would find. A large blot of blood from the loss of her maidenhood. I called the countess, also a witness to the wedding, to my side and chatted about some pretense. I ensured that she saw the bloodstained sheets. She looked in my eyes, and I looked back at her before speaking to Anne’s laundress. “Please see that these linens are changed immediately.”
I wanted them to see the blood. Henry’s marriage to Katherine was being dismantled because he claimed she had not come to his bed a maiden. Not one of Katherine’s servants or ladies had rushed to confirm stained sheets the night after her marriage with Henry. Mayhap there had been no stain to confirm. Prince Arthur, after all, had claimed to be lusty and amorous as the court performed the bedding ceremony the night of his wedding to Katherine and afterward had called for water, saying that the previous night he had been in Spain and that being a husband was thirsty work.