Chapter 2 #2
George looks straight past me, his wife, and raises his cup to Anne.
So does William Brereton – in a sober reproach to the king; so does Francis Bryan, with a twisted smile on his masked face, as if he is winking under his black eye patch.
Surprisingly, so does Charles Brandon, up on his unsteady legs for the second time.
He has always been our enemy, a staunch friend to the old queen, a loyal member of the Spanish party, and for a moment I hope that his courtesy to Anne means that he has changed sides.
But then I understand that both Francis Bryan and Charles Brandon are giving the king cover for his own game, as he gets to his feet, staggering a little, and points his cup directly at Agnes and whispers her name.
She looks back at him intently and she rises to her feet to reply to his toast, but he does not sit down, so as everyone else subsides, the two of them are left standing as if they are alone.
She raises her cup to him then throws off her drink with an upraised arm so that her sleeve slides back to give him a forbidden glimpse of the crook of her elbow and the hidden pale flesh of her rounded upper arm.
She smiles at the king, a long smile, sweet as a promise, and she sits down again, among the maidens, as modest as a primrose.
The court is stunned into silence, it is the end of the dinner.
I wish to God it were the end of the day, but we all have to ride home together.
George and I sweep Anne into her litter and ride beside her, ahead of everyone, so she cannot see the king, lingering behind with Agnes.
She draws the curtains, and we ride on either side in stony silence.
When we are nearly home, we hear the king canter up behind us with Francis Bryan and Charles Brandon on either side, and I give up my place so that he can ride beside Anne’s litter. I mutter quickly: ‘The king!’ so she knows he’s there, but she does not draw back the curtain to greet him.
‘I think the queen is sleeping,’ George volunteers to explain the silence and the drawn curtains.
The king chuckles; he is still drunk. ‘We’ll let sleeping dogs lie, shall we?’
Charles Brandon laughs out loud. ‘Sleeping bitches bite.’
Anne tears the curtain open, and Charles Brandon bows his head and turns his horse to one side.
‘Are you tired, my lady?’ the king says, with the careful politeness of a drunk husband.
She shoots him a furious look and says nothing in reply. George drops back to give them some privacy; but everyone can see Anne’s hand gripping the silk curtain against the gold-leaf frame and hear her low-voiced stream of complaints.
‘Stop her,’ George says to me.
‘You stop her,’ I reply, for we both know I cannot push my way between the king and the litter, and anyway, the grooms have pulled the mules to a halt, and the whole court can hear the king’s furious bellow.
‘Madam, I tell you this, and I will only tell you once. You will shut your eyes and endure, as your betters have done—’
I look around to see the blank horror on Anne’s mother’s face.
‘Betters,’ I repeat in a whisper.
Anne spits a venomous reply; but the king raises his voice and goes on: ‘You should know . . .’ He is drunk, but his speech is clear; they will hear every word even at the very back. ‘You should know that it is in my power to humble you again, in a moment – in a moment! Just as I have raised you.’
She does not meet his bulging-eyed stare.
She looks straight ahead, white-faced. The king gives a harsh, wild laugh and beckons his men friends to follow him, and they take off past the litter at a gallop back to the palace.
The beautiful French mules harnessed to the litter shift restlessly and rock Anne in her seat.
George tips his head to me to stay with Anne as he puts his heels on his horse and thunders after the king.
Their mother, Elizabeth Boleyn, comes up on the other side of the litter but says nothing.
We ride back to the palace in silence, the dust from the king’s gallop settling on the silver white curtains.
Anne gets out as soon as the litter halts before the wide front doors, and she and her mother go inside while I am dismounting from my horse.
Slowly, I follow them to the queen’s rooms, the ladies-in-waiting ahead of me.
For a moment, I hesitate, remembering all the times I have gone through this door to hear someone reading from the Bible or the buzz of laughing conversation and Queen Katherine presiding over a peaceful busy room.
Now, I walk into a frosty privy chamber, the ladies sulking after a scold.
Elizabeth Somerset nods her head towards the bedchamber. ‘You’re to go in. We’re all in disgrace. I don’t know why. It’s not as if it’s our fault!’
In the bedchamber, George is leaning on the mantelpiece; the fire is out. Anne’s mother has made her escape to her own rooms through the king’s door. Anne is in the window seat, still in her red-velvet riding dress, glaring down into the garden below.
I close the door and wait.
‘You saw what he did,’ she says tightly. ‘You heard him rage at me.’
‘You’ll make up,’ I say. ‘You always rage and make up.’
‘We will. But that’s the last toast he’ll drink to her.’
I glance at George; his beautiful face is stony, sculpted like the limestone fireplace.
‘Tell Agnes to go,’ Anne orders. ‘Tell her that she can’t stay at court.’
I hesitate. ‘Better not today,’ I say. ‘Not after that scene. Better to leave it, when she can leave quietly?’
‘No,’ George says decisively. ‘As an example for others. You can bed the king but not advise him. You don’t put words in his mouth.
We do that: only us. She’s to leave – not because she’s his flirt but because she’s told him that Katherine of Aragon was a better woman than Anne.
Because he said that Anne should put up with what had been done to her betters. ’
Anne spits an oath and looks out of the window.
‘The duke, our uncle, wants her gone,’ I confirm.
‘So, what are you waiting for?’ George asks me with forced cheer. ‘Go to it! Cast off, my falcon!’
‘It’s my command,’ Anne rules.
I WALK INTO THE sullen privy chamber. ‘Where’s Agnes?’ I ask one of the maids-of-honour.
‘Changing her dress,’ she says. ‘The king has sent her some beautiful sleeves. They were on her bed when she came in.’ She simpers. ‘With a poem! He’s written her a love song!’
I enter the bedroom that Agnes shares with the other maids-of-honour without knocking.
Three girls, cooing over a handwritten page, drop it as they see me, and whisk out of the door.
Agnes stands by her bed with the new sleeves spread before her.
I pick them up and fold them over my arm; she makes a tiny movement as if to snatch them back, and then she holds herself still.
‘I warned you,’ I say kindly, for she looks like a frightened child, standing by her bed. ‘I warned you, but you have continued to behave—’
‘The king!’ she whispers.
‘The king’s behaviour is beyond comment. He is the king. You serve the queen, and it is her good opinion you should be seeking. You have lost that. So, you have lost your place. You should write to your parents to take you from court at once.’
‘The Marquess of Exeter assured my father and mother that I should have a place in the queen’s rooms.’
Fool that she is: she has revealed her patron is Henry Courtenay Marquess of Exeter, Gertrude’s husband, of the old royal family, leader of the Spanish party.
A novice spy, she has confirmed that they brought her to court and placed her into the queen’s rooms in the hopes of stealing the king from Anne.
They must be delighted with her progress.
The king has never spoken to Anne like this before, never told her to endure as her betters had done: he never thought that there was anyone better than Anne!
This is not a lovers’ tiff; it is a masterstroke against us.
The Poles, the Courtenays, all the royal cousins and kin know that the king has to be surrounded by the best – the best jousters, the best dancers, the best poets, the most beautiful women.
A second son himself, he cannot tolerate second place in anything.
They know this, they have known him from childhood.
Agnes, their mouth to his ear, has suggested Anne is second best. With them writing her lines she is a real danger to us. She has to go.
‘That was kind of the Marquess of Exeter; but the queen has a right to choose her own household. You are not suitable. So, pack your belongings and leave. Her Grace does not want to see you again.’
She opens her mouth to speak, but she has nothing to say. She hesitates, stammers; she suddenly looks much younger, as if she is about to cry.
‘I will take these,’ I say, showing her the beautifully embroidered sleeves in my arms. Her eyes linger on the luminous mother-of-pearl buttons, on the rich silk slashing.
‘They came to you by accident. The king intended them for the queen. It will be better – far better for you – if I tell her that. But I shall see that you are invited back to court within a year or two. You can come back then, and no one will know that I ordered you to go.’
‘You order!’ she finds the courage to say, with a little quaver in her voice. ‘Who are you to give orders to me?’
‘I am a Howard,’ I say simply. ‘His Grace, Thomas Howard the Duke of Norfolk is head of my house, and the queen is my sister-in-law. Who are you to question me?’
She gives a sulky little curtsey. ‘I’ll return the sleeves to the royal wardrobe myself,’ she says.