you, it’s me. I can’t be anyone’s mistress, not even yours.
He’d had mistresses; of course he had, married to Catherine. No surprise, there. The surprise was his discretion: Henry, the consummate showman, becoming low-key, cloak and dagger, keeping it all under wraps. There were times when everyone had suspected there was someone, but no one seemed to know who. A considerable achievement, such secrecy, at court. Other times, though, all was revealed and revelled in. Six or seven years before Henry wrote that first love letter to me, his mistress of the time had given birth to a baby boy. Mother of the king’s only son, Betsy Blount was fêted. Little Fitz was given a grand christening, with Cardinal Wolsey, no less, named as Godfather. Catherine attended, fixed with that serene smile. Gracious, people said. Stupid, would be another way of putting it.
All my poor sister achieved was to have Henry name a battleship in her honour. Fitting, I imagine people said: Mary Boleyn, they probably said, has a lot of sailors in every port; Mary Boleyn rides the swell.
Any mistress of his known to us—my sister no exception—was of a certain type. Giggly. Fun. Fun is what a mistress is; it’s what she’s for. Henry loved fun, in those days; nothing was more important, to him, so nothing was more important to us at court. Court seemed to exist solely for that purpose: Henry’s fun, day and night, summer and winter. Jousts, banquets, charades. Singing, hunting, gambling. And a mistress played her role. Knew her place, too. Fun while it—she—lasted. No misunderstandings. After Betsy had produced Fitz, in a residence provided for the purpose by the king, she never returned to court. Instead, she was married off to a man who was then favoured for various lucrative appointments. They’ve since had several children. My sister, too, in time, had had marital arrangements made on her behalf. Again, no problem: it was a happy marriage. No hard feelings, and no complications. For Henry, mistresses were mistresses, not potential wives. He had a wife.
I could never have been a mistress; it simply wasn’t my style. Don’t think that I couldn’t be fun with the rest of them; more fun than the rest of them. (Remember: nothing by halves.) But I could never have been discarded, like that; passed over, married off. All good things come to an end, Henry had said to my sister. But of course she’d had no say in when.
Henry said to me, ‘I don’t want you to be my mistress.’ We were sitting side by side in his private garden at Greenwich; a private moment at his request. ‘“Mistress”,’ he quoted, full of impatience, derision. ‘You’re not—you couldn’t be.’ He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I don’t want a mistress; I want you.’ A shrug, helpless. ‘I want to be with you.’
That’s all very nice, I said; noble sentiments, I said; but—face it—what I’d be is a mistress. His long, blank look was unreadable; I anticipated a berating for being hard-hearted.
But he muttered, ‘I wish—’ Then closed his eyes, gave up, said nothing.
Never mind: it would pass in any case, I assumed; this crush on me. I was intriguing, he was intrigued: that was all it was. When nothing happened, he’d lose interest. But I was wrong: six months later, his infatuation was worse. There was no escaping him, not even when I retreated to Hever: letters came (Listen to me: there has never been and never will be anyone but you; I knew nothing until I met you); presents came (clusters of jewels, sugar-shapes, and haunches of venison); and on one occasion he came (dining with my family and staying overnight).
I wouldn’t have known those letters were from Henry but for the handwriting, the signature. They had nothing in them of the king that I or anyone else knew; our valiant, bombastic king. In these letters was someone at sea, in the dark.
Anne, yesterday you said…
Anne, please, may I just…?
His problem was that he’d never been in love. This was unknown territory, for him. He’d lusted after women, yes. And there’d been women whose company he’d loved: he was a man who loved company, and there had been women. His marriage was testament to his chivalry, if nothing else. But in love? At someone’s mercy? No, never. Not until me.
Not that this was enough, for me. Not enough to make me love him. Enough to stop me in my tracks, certainly, but to turn my head? No. All those letters, the walks in the gardens, the trysts that he requested: lovely though they were, they didn’t do the trick. During those first weeks, he confided in me: his family, his horses, music, books, buildings, faith, France and Spain. I did warm to him, I’ll admit, finding him mostly untouched despite the weight of the world on his shoulders. I listened, but deflected his questions. Keeping my distance, giving no ground.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I did; by this time I liked him a lot. Funnily enough, what I liked in him was something that I loathe in everyone else: conservatism. It was understandable, in his case: part of the job. He wasn’t a natural at it, though, which made him perfect prey for me to rib. And I do love to rib. And with no one but him was there ever enough danger, for me; no getting beneath the skin. He loved to be ribbed, perhaps because no one had ever dared do it. He was ripe for it, and I was match enough for him.
Winter came and there wasn’t a single day, I don’t think, when it didn’t rain. Wolsey began 1526 cheerfully, though, with a springclean. His vision was a tidied royal household. One result was that my brother George lost his place in the Privy Chamber. Nothing personal, we were assured. He was just one of the six closest companions to the king to lose his job. Another, incidentally, was our cousin Francis. Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber down from twelve to six; just one of the cuts.
George was livid to have been so close to the centre and now be just another courtier. And—worse—guess who was in? Our brother-in-law, Mary’s new husband: inoffensive William. William Carey: the name speaks for itself. And nice Harry Norris: Groom of the Stool, now, and Keeper of the Privy Purse (and who could be closer to a constipated, spendthrift king?). And cute Franky Weston, with his then not-quite-broken voice: he was taken on as a page. No one could ever have said that my brother or cousin were caring or nice or cute; theirs were different strengths. Not that it made much difference, in the end. Because they’re all dead now, except Francis. Francis probably couldn’t die unless a stake were driven through his heart. If he had a heart.
Not a stake through the heart, but a splinter in an eye: dashing Francis lost more than his place in the Privy Chamber, that year. It happened at the usual Shrovetide joust. Henry had ridden into the tiltyard on Govenatore, who was new to him then and perhaps even keener than him to make an impression. The horse played to the audience; and Henry, though loving the challenge and the spectacle, had his hands full. Hannibal Zinzano, the horsekeeper, was, I noticed, watchful at the side. It wasn’t for Govenatore, though, that the crowd gasped; it was for what was embroidered in scarlet across the king’s gold-and-silver chest: No Comment. Recognition rippled through the crowd as Henry cantered around and people saw it or had it translated for them. Everyone knew what it meant: there was someone; someone new. They thrilled to it; it was a game to them, a laugh. His own smile, if there was one, was behind his visor. I don’t think he looked at me. He didn’t need to. Me, I had no such luxury. Like everyone else, I was there to spectate.
I couldn’t quite believe he’d done it. Indeed, I wasn’t quite sure what it was that he’d done. Didn’t know quite what to make of it. This declaring that he wouldn’t declare. This being so public about his privacy. Was I in on the joke, or was the joke on me? And then, as I watched him skittering around the yard, it was as if the joke unfurled. This is what I saw: that when he’d had the idea, he would have had to go to Mr Jaspar, his tailor, and discuss design and colour; and later, he’d have had to take delivery of it, and express his appreciation. And on the morning of the joust, he’d have had to arrive at the stables in it to do his best with Govenatore. What I saw wasn’t the seriousness
