For the Love of Anne Read online

  She made her way to his chamber, knowing that he would not be alone, that he would be attended by his grooms and dressers, but hoping he would dismiss them. She did not expect to see him coming out of the chamber of her own cousin, Madge Shelton. Anne heard a mischievous giggle as she passed Madge’s apartments, turned toward the sound and saw the King coming out into the gallery, closing the door behind him and still fastening his codpiece.

  Anne had warned her before, but apparently she had taken no heed. She was betrothed to Sir Henry Norris, Henry’s close friend, and this was how he respected such a man.

  Madge was also carrying on an affair with Sir Francis Weston, another married man. She thought no one knew about that, but Anne did. Perhaps Sir Henry approved of this insult to his manhood. Perhaps he was another like her sister’s late husband, William Carey, who closed his eyes to his wife’s affair with the King while he helped himself to the spoils and thought himself fortunate. Anne hoped Sir Henry Norris was not of that ilk.

  Her rage grew into a monster over which she had no control. She took a threatening step toward her husband, her fingers bunching into fists at her sides, her jaw clenching, her heart pounding so hard she feared it might leap out of her mouth.

  Henry stood before her, his face a mask of fury. He towered over her, threatening her with his very proximity. She wanted to move away, wanted to run, but her pride would never allow her to retreat.

  “You want a legitimate son,” she said. “Do you think you’ll get one by giving your favours to others?”

  “I no longer expect a legitimate son from you, My Lady,” he said bitterly. “You have proven yourself incapable.”

  “You know why I miscarried last time,” she retorted. “Twas because I was so distressed when you fell from your horse, when the beast landed on your precious body with his full weight. I was so afraid for your safety, my terror caused me to lose our son.” She drew closer, ran her fingers along his arm. “We can try again, Henry. I have been waiting.”

  He flipped her hand away as though it were an annoying fly that had landed on him, then he turned and made his way toward his own chambers, left her staring after him, hoping he would come back, invite her to join him.

  She hated this, hated having to debase herself like this. She did not love him, had never loved him, but she had grown tender toward him and his rejection hurt. She had to give him a son, she simply had to.

  It was a curious comfort to know that Henry was not completely devoted to Mistress Jane Seymour. If he was still bedding Madge, Seymour was less of a threat than Anne had feared. But she had to know if her cousin’s relationship with the King was carried on with her betrothed’s approval.

  The following day, Anne confronted Sir Henry Norris. She was angry, furious with him, with the King and with everyone else who was getting in the way of her ambition. Once that ambition had been to marry the man she loved; now a new purpose had been forced upon her, to be a good wife to Henry, to be his Queen, to give him a son.

  She intended only to ask him when he intended to marry, but his words angered her, turned her seemingly innocent question into something that would be overheard, twisted and used against her.

  “Tell me, please, Sir Henry,” she said. “Why are you not going through with your marriage to Lady Shelton?”

  Sir Henry shrugged, his mouth forming a very slight grimace.

  “I would tarry a time,” he replied. “I am in no hurry.”

  His flippancy made her angry. He had misunderstood the meaning behind her question, which was to hurry him to the altar.

  “You look for dead men’s shoes,” she snapped angrily. “For if aught came to the King but good, you would look to have me.”

  Sir Henry’s complexion drained of all colour, his eyes widened and he looked terrified. He had good cause, for to speak of the death of the King was treason. He needed to deny her allegation, to refute it firmly.

  He shook his head, took a step back and away from her.

  “If I should have any such thought, I would my head were off,” he said.

  There was a catch in his voice as he spoke, as though holding back tears, and he looked about him fearfully to see who of his enemies might be listening.

  “Do not forget I can undo you like that,” she said, snapping her fingers in his face.

  “I do not want you, Your Majesty. You are wrong and if I have done anything to make you think otherwise, it was unintended. What can I do to assure you?”

  “You must get on with your marriage,” she snapped. “And you must go to my almoner and swear an oath as to my good character.”

  Anne was angry now, angry that she had spoken in haste and without thought and she was terrified, for if her words should reach the King’s ears, she would be in real danger.

  She had no idea what to do. She should go to Henry, make sure he knew the words were said in anger. Wistfully, she considered that this whole thing, this whole quarrel with Norris had been the King’s doing, for if he had not been bedding Norris’ betrothed, none of it would have happened. But that would not save her; nothing was ever the King’s fault. In his eyes, he could do no wrong. There was always someone to blame and this time it was Anne.

  She hurried to find him, to try to explain, as she was sure someone would have already told him. She saw him leaving his privy chamber and she started to run, wanting to catch him before he went out. He saw her, she knew he had seen her yet he turned away and left the palace.

  The argument gnawed away at her for the whole of the following day and night, so much so that she found sleep hard to come by. She spoke in haste, in a flirtatious manner as was her want, but talk of the King’s death had slipped in unbidden.

  The next day was the May Day celebrations. There would be entertainments, minstrels, acrobats and jesters and there was a great joust for them to watch. It was the first joust since the King’s accident and Anne hoped he would not be too bitter about being unable to take part himself.

  She would smile today, she would be happy, she would flirt and she would make him want her again. But even as she thought it, she still had that nagging suspicion that something was happening about which she knew nothing.

  She had noticed the way some people had avoided her gaze of late and she knew that others fell silent when they saw her coming. It was not her imagination, she was sure it wasn’t.

  She thought it was the Seymour trollop; she imagined they knew the King was chasing another woman, trying to make her his mistress, and they were avoiding Anne lest she question them about it.

  Mark had disappeared as well. Her favourite minstrel, who always followed her about, had not been seen today. She had been forced to reprimand him only yesterday for always being there, with her and her closest friends. These were men like Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Henry Norris, high born noblemen whose company the likes of Mark Smeaton should never seek.

  Perhaps her words were a little harsh, but they were kindly meant. He was doing nothing save make himself look foolish, behaving as he was. She sought only to save him embarrassment, but he might have taken her words amiss.

  She would make it up to him when next they met, give him an extra bonus but make it clear he was a servant, nothing more.

  The King was attentive that day, giving Anne the confidence to believe his flirtation with Jane Seymour was just that, a flirtation. She knew from reports that the woman had refused to sleep with him, but she also knew that the Seymour brothers were doing everything in their power to push their sister into the presence of the King.

  Anne needed to rekindle the flame, the fire that had caused Henry to pursue her, to divorce a princess of Spain, to establish his own church.

  Today he was enjoying the entertainments, especially the jousts.

  “Would that I could compete with them,” he said.

  “No, Your Grace,” said Anne. “You need to recover from your fall. Then perhaps you will joust again.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, se
nding a thrill of anticipation through her. It was not an anticipation of desire or passion, but rather an eagerness to prove to herself that he was still hers.

  Then a messenger appeared with a note, which he handed to Henry. He read it swiftly, his smile vanished, then abruptly he stood and left the stadium. Anne’s eyes followed him, her joy of only a few minutes ago turned to fear. He had left without so much as a goodbye, without so much as a kiss. That was not like him, not like him at all.

  She was never to see him again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  All Their Prayers Will Go Unanswered

  HENRY FELT A SHIVER of excitement. The news that had come to him would be the beginning of a plan he had asked Thomas Cromwell to put into place. The minstrel had confessed, and he had named others, one of whom Henry loved more than he had ever loved his wife. But it had to be dealt with.

  He sent for Sir Henry Norris to ride with him. That was nothing uncommon, they often rode together, but not alone, not like this.

  They were a long way from the palace before the King spoke.

  “I have been hearing things, Norris,” he said. “Things that give me disquiet.”

  “Your Majesty?” said Norris. “Can I aid you?”

  “You can indeed,” said the King. He drew rein and stopped beside him. “I have heard that you, my great friend, have had carnal knowledge of the Queen, my wife. Is it true?”

  Norris’ heart almost sprang out of his throat, it beat so fast and so hard that it actually hurt and he could not speak.

  “I suppose you know I have dallied with your betrothed,” said the King. “I wonder if you have acted in retaliation.”

  “No, Your Majesty,” said Norris, his voice distorted with the trembling in his throat. “I am innocent. I have done nothing with the Queen save befriend and defend her.”

  “Are you sure?” said the King. “You are my friend and it pains me to be asking you these things.”

  He did not sound pained, not at all. In fact his voice sounded as calm as if he were but discussing the weather.

  “Sire, I swear by Almighty God, I will make a sacred Oath, I have never known the Queen.”

  “Come,” said the King. “If you confess, I will pardon you and no blame to be laid at your feet.”

  Norris looked into the hard, cruel eyes of his sovereign and he knew he was doomed, no matter what he said. But despite his recent quarrel with Anne, he would not lie to save himself.

  “May I ask, Your Grace,” he said, “where you have heard these things? Who has been lying about me, about her?”

  “Her young musician, Mark Smeaton,” said the King. “He has confessed to bedding with the Queen himself and he has named others to whom she has given her favours. You are one of those named.”

  “He lies,” cried Norris. “He lies and I know why.”

  “You do? I would like to hear it.”

  “Only recently the Queen reprimanded him, told him he was a lowly fellow who should not expect the same manners as she showed to her friends.”

  “You think that enough to make him condemn her?”

  “I do, Your Grace.” Norris paused to take a deep breath; his voice was shaking so much he could barely form the words. “He likely thinks he is avenging himself on her as well as his betters. What other reason can there possibly be?”

  “Perhaps because it is the truth,” said the King.

  He rode away, leaving Sir Henry to pray silently, but even as he did so he knew his prayers would go unanswered.

  ANNE SEARCHED THE PALACE for the King, but he was nowhere to be found. She wanted to know what had caused him to leave her to close the lists, to go so abruptly, so out of character.

  She slept badly that night, knowing he was displeased about something, but not knowing what. Perhaps his little Seymour had upset him somehow; perhaps the little mouse was not so compliant as at first appeared.

  She had looked everywhere for Mark as well, and failed to find him. She must have offended him more than she realised, for he never missed an opportunity to follow her about, to be in her presence. It was odd to find that she missed him, though; well, not him so much as his music. She would make a point of being kind to him when he reappeared.

  The following day she settled down to watch a tennis match. She enjoyed the game, enjoyed watching the interaction, the excitement of the players and the crowd, but she was interrupted by a man she thought of as one of her worst enemies, her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.

  He did not bow, made no attempt to show her the respect due to the Queen of England. That was nothing new; he had only ever paid her that homage when she was with the King, when it was impossible to tell which of them he was bowing to.

  “You are called before the King’s council,” he said without preamble. “You are to answer certain charges.”

  Her heart jumped and her first thought was that this was some dark game of the Duke’s, designed to frighten her. But no, he would not dare. She was still the Queen, whether he liked it or not.

  “Charges?” she said. “What charges?”

  She knew she had done nothing and a little voice at the back of her brain insisted that this was some scheme to frighten her. She had been too outspoken to the King in front of his courtiers, that was the cause of this. Katherine had always been subservient and meek, but Anne could never be like that, never be the obedient wife. Henry did not like it; this was his way of punishing her, his way of reminding her that he was the King, that he could destroy her with but one word.

  “You are charged with having carnal relations with four men,” said the Duke. “And with plotting the death of His Grace, the King.”

  Anne laughed; she could not help it. This was some jest.

  “How ridiculous,” she said, and turned away with a wave of her hand. But three of Norfolk’s men blocked her path.

  “The King does not think so,” said the Duke.

  He was serious; he actually meant it. Anne could only stare in disbelief, her thoughts jumbled as she tried to tell herself that this was Norfolk’s doing, that he was trying to trick her into confessing to something of which she was innocent. It would be just like him; he had always hated her, although she never did quite understand why.

  He was her uncle, her mother’s brother, and was always kind to her when she was a child. It was after the King noticed her that things changed; one would have thought it would have pleased him to have the Queen as his niece, but he was a staunch Catholic, a supporter of Katherine and the Church of Rome. He obviously blamed Anne for the divorce and the split with Rome, like many people. But it was not true. Henry did all that, all by himself. Why should she be blamed?

  Years ago Anne suspected that Henry would not want his prize once he had tasted it, that he would find some excuse to rid himself of her as he had Katherine. Now it seemed her fears had come to pass; Henry had lost interest in her and this was his way of ridding himself of her. Well, she would not allow it! She was innocent and she knew it; she could defend herself.

  She drew herself up to her most dignified position and followed the Duke to the council chambers. He should, of course, be following her, but two of his guards did that, which made her feel less confident.

  She could hardly believe the charges, the ludicrous idea that she, Queen Anne, would have bedded with Mark Smeaton, a lowly minstrel. Why, it was but two days ago she was telling him she could not address him as an equal, and here they thought she might allow him to be intimate with her. They said Mark had confessed and perhaps that was why, because she had reprimanded him. Was it possible that he was trying to avenge himself on her, telling these lies? But it was far more likely that poor Mark had been tortured into giving a false confession.

  Dates were read out, dates when Smeaton had confessed to bedding with the Queen.

  “No!” cried Anne. “I was not at those places at those times. The King knows that, for I was with him.”

  Nobody answered. Then more names were read out: “Sir William Bre
reton...”

  “I hardly know him!” interrupted Anne.

  The speaker carried on reading as though she had not spoken.

  “Sir Henry Norris, with whom you plotted against the King’s person.”

  Anne was shaking her head, searching her mind for anything that could have made the King think she might be guilty of any of these things. Of course; the argument with Norris about his marriage. She had known at the time that her words were dangerous, yet they meant nothing; they were said in anger.

  “Sir Thomas Wyatt...”

  “He is my friend, nothing more.”

  “Viscount Rochford...”

  Anne took a step back, clutched the cabinet beside her, her heart racing. Tears brimmed in her eyes now, but she found no sympathy in her uncle, nor did she expect any.

  “He is my brother!” she cried. “My brother. How can I have committed adultery with him? That would be incest.”

  Then she saw the faces of the men, saw one or two of them nodding. She was being charged with incest?

  “What evil mind has reported such a thing?” said Anne. “Because I love my brother, because he is my best friend and confidante, some foul minded, jealous rival thinks there must be something unclean in it. Was this Mark, too?”

  There were a few nods, involuntary nods as they had no real intention of replying, of satisfying her curiosity.

  “All these men have been taken to the Tower,” said the Duke of Norfolk. “Now you are to join them to await your trial.”

  She wanted to argue, wanted to give her side of things, but she was trembling, shaking so much she could not speak. Her teeth were chattering, although the May sunshine shone through the windows and warmed the chamber. She felt the dampness under her arms and beneath her bosom, she felt all colour drain from her face.