“I pray you, dance with me once more,” he invited. “I would make things right between us.”

  “Sir, forgive my boldness, but there can be no ‘us,’ and there is no need to make anything right.”

  “Then I will escort you back to your place,” he said in his steeliest voice.

  * * *

  —

  It was a novel experience for him to be left dangling in suspense by a woman. All those he had pursued—except Mary Carey in the beginning—had been eager for his attentions and his favor; he was the King, after all. Of course, he had played the courtly game of love first, as was expected of him, and because he enjoyed it. He was a hunter by nature and the pleasure was all in the pursuit. It was familiarity that often bred boredom and contempt.

  He could not be angry with Anne for long. Her virtue and her loyalty to her sister were admirable. When next he paid Kate a visit, he smiled at Anne and asked her to play her lute for them.

  “You play very well,” he complimented her.

  “Not as well as your Grace,” she said, giving the expected response—an olive branch, he hoped. And there was Kate, smiling at them both.

  * * *

  —

  Christmas brought its customary revelry and good order was turned on its head; all ceremony was forgotten and the Lord of Misrule reigned supreme. There was a game of hoodman blind, when the Master of the Revels, blindfolded, chased the shrieking courtiers through the royal apartments. Harry’s face darkened when he saw Anne running hand in hand with Tom Wyatt toward an arras, behind which they concealed themselves with a lot of fumbling and giggling. Why could she not be like that with him?

  He would have to resort to subterfuge. There was to be a disguising, which suited his purpose admirably. He dressed himself as the Green Man, hiding his face behind an elaborate mask of leaves, and caught Anne from behind under the kissing bough suspended from a roof beam above the doorway. Twisting her around to face him, he kissed her heartily on the lips. How sweet it was! She broke away and ran from him, disappearing around a corner. He followed her, as the sounds of merriment faded into the distance and all was quiet and in darkness. Then he saw her, frozen at the end of a gallery, and hastened toward her.

  “Anne!” he cried. “Do not fear me. I am no rapist, as your sister alleges. For weeks now I have been unable to think of anything but you. I come to you as a supplicant, hoping you will take pity on me.”

  Was that a smile playing about her lips? “Sir, I am flattered to receive the attention of so great a king, but in truth I do not know how I can help you.”

  He tore off his mask, placed his hands on her slender shoulders and gazed into her eyes. She felt so small and vulnerable under his touch. “Anne!” He could not hide the catch in his voice. “You have cast an enchantment on me! I do not know how to explain it. It seems presumptuous to use the word love, but I know what I feel. I do not sleep at night; I see only your face before me. I am in torment!”

  “Sir!” she protested. “I have cast no enchantment! I am your good subject, nothing more.”

  He let his hands encircle her waist and drew her to him. “I want you, Anne,” he murmured. “I want to be your servant, and I want you for my acknowledged mistress. Venus, that insatiable goddess, has brought me to this pass, but I pray that you, sweetheart, will be kind to me!”

  “Sir!” She went rigid in his arms and he let her go, standing back and looking at her, knowing she must see the naked longing in his face.

  “May I have time to think on this?” she asked. “Your Grace has so overwhelmed me that I do not know what to say to you.”

  “Of course, Anne!” he agreed, jubilant that she was finally playing the game.

  1526

  After Christmas, Wolsey joined Harry at Eltham, where they drew up a list of ordinances for the reform of the royal household.

  Wolsey had prepared well. “My aim is to save money, and eliminate waste,” he said.

  “I have long felt the need for these changes.” Harry nodded. “They are necessary. The war with France has drained my treasury.” All that gold inherited from his father had disappeared, spent on palaces, entertainments, kingly display, and war. Matters had reached the point where some servants would have to be pensioned off and hangers-on ejected from the court. Harry knew he had been over-generous in granting positions to his favorites and their clients; now he would have to be more careful.

  Predictably, Wolsey seized this second chance to counter the threat to his authority from the Privy Chamber, the one center of power at court over which he lacked influence.

  “Your Grace,” he said, in his most paternal manner, “those who surround you should lead an example as your courtiers. They should be eloquent, learned, and well informed, and thus able to influence their master in a beneficial way. They ought to be the epitome of chivalry and courtesy, lovers of the arts, and expert in martial exercises and sports. But these virtues are not apparent in the Privy Chamber. It is full of pride, envy, indignation, mocking, and derision. There is more malice than moderation, and there are too many young men of a martial bent with time on their hands.”

  Harry knew that Wolsey was right. Those who surrounded him were greedy to feather their own nests and averse to giving place to anyone else. But he did not want to admit that there was a problem. “I provide them with outlets for their energy and aggression,” he declared. “There are many opportunities for sport and feats of arms and entertaining diversions. I’ve built tiltyards, houses of pleasure for playing at chess, backgammon, dice, cards, and billiards, and bowling alleys, archery butts, and goodly tennis plays.”

  But Wolsey remained implacable. In the interests of economy, Harry’s gentlemen were reduced from twelve to six. Convinced that Richard Pace was working against him, Wolsey saw to it that he was ousted from his post as secretary and sent to Spain on a demanding diplomatic mission. Many people left court burning with resentment, chief among them Wolsey’s enemies, Compton, Bryan, Carew, Rochford, and George Boleyn, all vowing revenge upon the cardinal and determined to recover their former positions.

  Harry missed his friends. He wondered why he had again allowed Wolsey to persuade him that their removal was for the best. He had insisted on retaining as chief nobleman of the Privy Chamber his cousin Exeter, who was no lover of the cardinal. To counter his influence, Wolsey quickly brought in his own adherent, the one-eyed Sir John Russell, an ambitious courtier, soldier, and diplomat. The charming and polished Henry Norris, who had once again escaped the cull, replaced Compton as Groom of the Stool and head of the Privy Chamber; he was close to Harry and eminently fitted for this most confidential of court offices.

  * * *

  —

  On Shrove Tuesday, Harry hosted a tournament at Greenwich. In a bullish mood, he had summoned his banished friends back to court, telling a disapproving Wolsey that he had need of them. In truth, he wanted to assert himself.

  But he was not thinking of his companions in arms as his attendants dressed him in a magnificent jousting costume of cloth of gold and silver with the motto “Declare I dare not” embroidered on his breast beneath a man’s heart engulfed in flames.

  Would she notice? Would she even care? Since that encounter at Christmas, he had barely seen her, and still she had given him no answer. Had she been avoiding him? He had feared so, but once or twice, when their paths had crossed and others were present, she had bestowed a dazzling smile on him and flashed those fascinating eyes. It had left him bewildered.

  He could not stop thinking about her. Her face came between him and his kingly duties. He would sit in Council dreaming of her, then realize he had not the faintest idea of what his councillors had been discussing. Today, therefore, he was going to declare himself—in the most subtle way, of course, for secrecy was one of the rules of the game. But she would know: he felt certain of it.

  He peered through the opening in his tent, looking across to the tiltyard gallery.

  Yes, she was there, seated with the other maids-of-honor, near the Queen. Beside her, Kate—indeed, all of them—looked insignificant.

  Fanfares sounded and the jousts began. Harry lifted the flap of his tent and watched the opening courses, thrilling at the thundering hooves of the mighty steeds and the clash of lances. And then a terrible cry rent the air. Sir Francis Bryan was down, howling in the dirt and clutching his eye.

  Harry threw a cloak over his costume, raced forward with the rest, and knelt beside his friend. “Call a doctor!” he shouted. In the stands, the spectators were on their feet, straining to see what had happened. Some ladies were shrieking.

  “My lance splintered,” Compton said, shaking. “It caught him in the eye.”

  “It was an accident,” Suffolk assured him.

  “It was,” Harry concurred. “You are not to blame. We all know the risks.” He laid a hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “Hold on. Help is coming.”

  When Dr. Chamber arrived and pulled Bryan’s hand away from the wound, all that could be seen was a gaping, bloody eye socket. “Be grateful that God gave you two eyes,” he said, as the wounded man was laid on a stretcher.

  The accident cast gloom over the day. As Harry watched his friend being carried away, he risked a glance in Anne Boleyn’s direction. Even she, normally so composed, looked shaken.

  “The jousts will continue!” he cried, marching back to his tent.

  Mounted on his horse, he trotted to the lists. At the sight of him, as well as cheers, there was a buzz of murmuring from the crowd. Kate was staring at him with a puzzled smile on her face. Surely she was not thinking that his motto and the blazing heart were for her? Those days were long gone.

  But the one for whom they were intended was not there; she had simply vanished. He felt inordinately crushed, and angry—he was the King, after all!

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, immediately after Mass, he went to Kate’s apartments, hoping he would see Anne, and surprised her as she walked into the antechamber. As she paused, startled, to curtsey, he closed the door. She put her hand up to steady her French hood and as the hanging sleeve she affected fell away, he noticed that she had a rudimentary sixth nail on her little finger. At once, she pulled down her sleeve and covered it. He understood. Ignorant people might think the deformity a sign of inner corruption or divine disfavor, or even a witch’s mark, but he was not one of them. He took that hand and kissed it, even as he felt her instinctively tug it away.

  “Mistress Anne, you have cast an enchantment on me.”

  “Like my sister did?” she retorted. Was she never going to forget that?

  “It was nothing like this,” he said gravely, willing her to understand his passion and his need of her.

  “And it would end up as nothing if I gave in to your Grace’s desires.” By God, she was cruel!

  “I am not asking you to bed with me,” Harry protested. “I would be your servant and have you for my mistress, to wield mastery over my heart.”

  “And have the world think me your harlot!” she cried.

  “Never that!” he said vehemently. “I have far too much regard for you. In fact, I came in the hope of seeing you. You left the tournament yesterday.”

  She drew her hand away. “I am recovered from my headache, thank you, Sir. I have yet to recover from seeing you publicly proclaim your feelings! Truly, that was unfair of you.”

  He was immediately contrite. “Anne, I cannot live without you. I have never been this powerfully attracted to any other woman. Help me, please! Give me some crumb of affection.”

  “Alas, Sir, you are not free, so it would not be proper. How is Francis Bryan?” Very deftly she had changed the subject!

  He grimaced. “His eye is gone, but he will otherwise recover.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. Forgive me, Sir, her Grace is waiting, and I shall get into trouble if I am late. Fare you well!” She pushed open the inner door and hurried away, her skirts rippling behind her.

  * * *

  —

  He had thought himself in love with Kate in the beginning, and with Bessie, and to a lesser extent with Mary Carey, but it had felt nothing like this searing desire to possess. He was mad for Anne, desperate for her body, for a kiss, a kind word even. But she continued to evade him. When he did contrive an encounter, she was charm itself, deferential and fizzing with wit, but she was holding back on him, he knew it, and it left him intrigued, entranced, and anguished.

  Mary Carey had said that Anne drew men to her, but that she could not understand why, as she was not one of the handsomest women in the world, but that was probably sisterly cattiness, as Mary did not sparkle socially in the way Anne did. Anne was always at the center of a group of young people, most of them gallant gentlemen like Tom Wyatt, who was still mooning around her, Harry noted jealously. It was true: she was not conventionally beautiful, but there was loveliness in her graceful figure; long neck; small, neat bosom; and wide mouth—and in those glorious black eyes that she used to great effect. No wonder she had so many men paying court to her. It ate at Harry to realize that he was just one of several suitors—and that she was showing him no special favor.

  Well, he would make her notice him! One spring evening, he caught up with her in the gardens and pressed into her hand a pouch containing four expensive gold brooches: one represented Venus and Cupid, the second a lady holding a heart in her hand, the third a gentleman lying in the lap of a lady, and the fourth a lady holding a crown. The symbolism was unmistakable, he hoped.

  He waited to see how she would respond. Most ladies would be falling over themselves to thank him for such a gift, eager to capitalize on his favor. But not Anne Boleyn, it seemed. She just walked away.

  One morning, gazing out of his window, brooding on what her silence betokened when he should have been signing state papers, he spied her in the orchard, alone. His feet seemed to grow wings as he sped out of his apartments, down the privy stair and out into the palace grounds, ignoring the astonished glances of courtiers surprised to see him unattended. He slowed down as he entered the orchard, as if he were merely enjoying a summer stroll there, and came upon Anne as if by accident.

  “Good day, Mistress Anne!” he said.

  If she was surprised to see him, she did not betray it. “Your Grace,” she said, and swept him an elegant curtsey. “I was just enjoying a few cherries. They have such a short season.”

  “They are my favorite fruits,” he said, his heart beating furiously at being so near to her. “Those, and strawberries. We have some coming along beautifully in the orchard garden.”

  Anne popped a cherry in her mouth. “Mm. So sweet!”

  “You have been avoiding me,” he said.

  “I? Oh, no, your Grace. I have been overwhelmed by the favor you have shown me and have not known quite how to express my thanks. The brooches are beautiful, but I do not know how I should interpret such a gift.” She pulled the brooch with the crown from her pocket.

  “It is symbolic of your holding the love of a king,” he told her. “You do like them?”

  “They are beautiful, Sir, but I am unworthy of them.”

  “Nonsense!” he declared. “Even though they can only be eclipsed by your beauty, they will enhance it. You need no adornment, but I should like you to wear these tokens of my love for you.”

  “Then I must wear them in private,” Anne said, “or people will wonder how I acquired such costly jewels.”

  “Let them!” he cried.

  “I dare not,” she protested. “I’m not sure I should even accept them, sensible though I am of your Grace’s generosity.”

  “But you must, Anne. I commissioned them for you. Please wear them, and think of me when you do.”

  “Very well,” she said doubtfully. “Thank you.”

  “And will you give me something in return?” Harry asked. “I beg only for a small token.”

  “I have none,” she said.

  “Yes, you do!”

  “No!” she cried.

  “Grant me just one token,” he pleaded. Reluctantly, she drew a ring from her finger and gave it to him. It was a trifle, of little value, but he kissed it with reverence and pushed it down to the first joint of his little finger.

  “That which is not freely given is worthless,” she sniffed, and walked away.

  The ring was worthless, a trifle really, but he had it resized and wore it all the time. He noticed, however, to his disappointment, that she never wore the brooches.

  * * *

  —

  He was not angry or offended. On the contrary, Anne’s coolness merely served to inflame his ardor to fever pitch. It was a piquant, even humbling situation for a great king, and it fueled what had burgeoned into a raging desire.

  He could think of nothing but Anne. He was enraptured by her sophistication, vivacity, and wit, and her independent spirit. In other ladies, he would have deplored that, but Anne was no ordinary woman. No one dressed as elegantly as she did; on her, the fashions of France looked wonderfully becoming. Every day, she made some change in the style of her garments. You might have taken her for a Frenchwoman born! She sang like a second Orpheus, accompanying herself on the lute or a clavichord she had decorated with green ribbons. Harry had heard her on several occasions when he visited Kate’s chamber. His eyes narrowed when he found Wyatt there, watching Anne play the virginals, singing a song she had composed, or reciting one of her poems.

  He did not doubt that, had Anne’s ambitious father known of his interest in her, he would have put pressure on her to show herself amenable. But he did not want her to be coerced. He wanted her to love him willingly.