Anne Boleyn’s heart fluttered like a caged canary within her breast. She held the present tightly within her white satin gloves—it was carefully wrapped in layer upon layer of thick red paper in the Chinese-style for added protection—her whole life depended on the king’s reception of this gift. Taking a deep breath, she stared around the Great Watching Chamber of King Henry VIII’s Westminster Palace, the bright scarlet and green of holly berries and leaves decorating the hall with a festive cheer that failed to match the delicately embroidered wall tapestries, which depicted St John the Baptist spilling his crimson life blood. A shiver went down her spine; hopefully, by the end of Christmas day her head would remain firmly on her shoulders.
A deathly silence filled the hall; all of the gentlemen in their burgundy doublets and the ladies in their ornate triangular English hoods held their breath as Cardinal Wolsey approached the king’s throne. The cardinal in his close-fitting zucchetto cap and black and red cassock approached the king gingerly, he carried a large wooden box with small holes bored into the lid and to Anne’s acute gaze there seemed to be something moving inside. Wolsey placed the box before his dread lord and prostrated himself on the floor to show his total submission and devotion to his master.
‘Merry Christmas, your majesty. I hope this humble gift brings you great cheer and fills your heart with gladness, sire.’
King Henry raised himself with some effort off the oaken throne, which was encrusted with gold leaf; he wore a ermine cloak that emphasised his wide muscular shoulders and his thighs seemed to be almost bursting out of their silk tights. His gigantic frame overshadowing the cardinal, Henry’s bearded features were illuminated by the silver candelabras as he opened the box. Three snow white doves escaped from the box and completely terrified after their confinement, flapped their wings flying in desperate circles, trying in vain to escape the chamber. Henry’s mouth beamed beneath his ginger beard and like a five-year-old boy he clapped his hands delightedly.
‘You have out done yourself this time, cardinal. Finally, we have a lasting peace with the French, on our terms.’
‘I merely did my humble best, sire.’ The cardinal said, trying to conceal the immodest smirk on his face. His diplomats had just signed the Treaty of More with France and the three doves represented each of the three kingdoms Henry claimed to rule: England, Ireland and of course France. Wolsey had every reason to be overly pleased with himself.
‘May, I humbly (Anne hated it whenever Wolsey said ‘humbly’), beg for a small token of your appreciation of my devoted service to you, sire?’ The cardinal asked his king.
‘You may cardinal.’ Henry waited for a red and gold liveried yeoman (the other yeomen were still busy chasing after one of the doves that they had failed to imprison with the others back in their box) to deliver the roll of parchment that appeared to be the cardinal’s present. ​​
‘This, good cardinal, is the official deed to the land where your new palace of Hampton Court has just been completed. I hope you are satisfied?’
Wolsey looked up at his king, serene composure written on his face almost as if he himself had arranged this gift, ‘Most gracious lord, I am most humbly (Anne could stand it no longer!) grateful to you, oh magnificent one!’
With many a bow towards his king, Wolsey walked backwards to rejoin his fellow courtiers.
Now that Wolsey was out of sight, Anne looked across the chamber to a dark recess where her sister Mary stood, her pale beauty and golden blonde hair disguised by the shadows. She couldn’t make out the expression on Mary’s face, but she could tell that the sight of the cardinal who had pimped her out to the king to become his mistress, made her blood run cold as it did her own. Anne hoped that one day Wolsey would suffer for the damage he had done to the Boleyn family honour.
A stranger next to her suddenly pinched her arm, a woman wearing a white pearl French hood like her own was trying to signal something to her. Oh God, it was her turn to go next, she had been so distracted by her own reverie that she had forgotten it was her turn to face the king—and his wrath if she had gauged her gift incorrectly.
Instinctively, Anne’s training at the French court kicked in as she approached the throne, remember: hold your head high, with your chin up—almost as if it was being pulled by a silver thread—and most importantly of all, keep your limbs loose and supple like a Greek goddess, not like a stiff and stony gargoyle. Her eyes were locked onto the king’s as her small purple velvet slippers padded against the wooden floor towards him. All her mind kept thinking was, don’t drop the present; whatever you do, do not drop the present. The hands holding the gift were convulsing uncontrollably and she felt—just like a young soldier carrying a petard (a bomb filled with gunpowder)—that any second the whole thing could blow up in her face.
She had reached the king. Anne curtsied and lowered her gaze demurely, before placing the wrapped present before her sovereign. All of the eyes of the court were fixed solely upon her, she could sense them boring into her, trying to figure out whether King Henry VIII would grant her his favour or dismiss her from his palace forever. Anne’s heart was exploding within her chest like a bombard cannon, her only hope was that the ordeal would soon be over.
King Henry bounded off his throne and embraced her within his strong arms, his ginger stubble brushing lightly against her cheek. In her nervousness, Anne hadn’t noticed that he had already unwrapped his present. Inside was a book, but not just any book, it was the Italian composer Andrea Antico’s Frottole intablate da sonari organi, filled with some of the greatest hits of the Italian Musical Renaissance. To Anne’s cultivated (and Francophile) taste, it was nearly a decade out of date, but it was far superior to any music found in the cultural backwater that was England.
Smiling down on Anne, Henry continued to clasp onto her shoulders in his enthusiasm, ‘How did you know that this was exactly what I wanted? Why, as soon as I set my eyes on a harpsichord I shall play these tunes immediately!’
Anne raised a bemused eyebrow, ‘You did mention it enough times on our last hunting excursion together, sire.’
‘Oh yes, I totally forgot I did that. That was a good hunting trip though, do you remember when I nearly hit that stag with my crossbow?’
Anne recalled that she had had to kill the deer, the king’s shot had been at least a yard wide. ‘You were so close, your highness. Only a hair’s breadth away.’
‘Yes, I remember it all perfectly now. My shot was a hair’s breadth away and we discussed how I should invite Andrea Antico and his fellow illustrious musicians to my court, to enrich England’s musical culture.’
Anne’s tongue remained silent, she thought it was best not to mention that compared to Italy and France, England barely had a musical culture.
Henry’s hazel eyes remained staring at Anne and she was becoming flustered underneath the king’s gaze.
‘I’m so glad you like the present, sire,’ Anne said; it was time to make her exit, she had done her duty to her family by winning the king’s favour, yet Henry didn’t seem to want to let her go. His long arms drew her closer to him and he whispered something in her left ear about her receiving her gift later this evening in private. As Henry retracted his grip, Anne curtsied once more before her king.
‘You do me a great honour, sire.’
‘The honour is all mine, Anne.’
Anne retreated from the king’s presence as gracefully as her long white satin dress allowed her. She tried to keep her facial expression composed, but sweat was beginning to appear on her brow. A private audience with the king? What could this mean? Would it be the making of her life at court or bring her utter ruin?
With a clap of his hands, the king signalled the end of the gift giving ceremony, some of the courtiers who had not had the opportunity to present their gift groaned in frustration; their five seconds with the king was the closest they would ever get to the centre of temporal power. Those unfortunates who had failed to give their gift lined up in a long queue to place their present beside the throne, while the rest, the chosen few, streamed through the chamber’s side doors towards the Great Hall, where the dancing would take place.
Every time Anne entered the Great Hall, she was always awestruck by the intricately carved and golden gilded hammerbeam roof that appeared to float above their heads like a heavenly castle. The Tudor roses that bloomed on the stained glass windows could not be seen in the bleak darkness that enveloped the world outside the palace, but the flickering candelabras brought to vivid life the hanging tapestries filled with jousting heroes and the Knights of the Round Table on their epic quest in search of the Holy Grail, which made her feel she was within the hallowed hall of Camelot itself. King Henry VIII, supposedly the heir to the great King Arthur, ordered the large oaken tables in the centre of the chamber cleared of the remnants of the wild boar’s head roast, and the whole swan that had been the court’s Christmas dinner. Anne shuddered at the memory of the slices of boar’s snout, drenched in red wine, that had been served to her. She never knew why the men took such trouble hunting it, it tasted vile.
Once the tables had been removed from the dance floor by the yeomen, who acted as the king’s personal bodyguard, Henry gestured to the musicians at the rear of the hall—all armed with lutes, harpsichords and flutes—to start playing the fast and upbeat tempo of the galliard dance. As the vibrant notes began to escape the orchestra’s instruments and reverberate around the chamber, Anne checked her velvet slip-on shoes were tight enough; the galliard involved a bewildering array of athletic leaps, jumps and hops that left even a woman of only four-and-twenty years, such as herself, exhausted by the end and it would be the pinnacle of embarrassment if one of her shoes flew off.
The whole court immediately divided into two groups, the women on the north wall to the left of the hall and the men on the south wall to the right. The courtiers headed towards their partners opposite them on the other side of the chamber and in a blur of feathered hats and ladies’ hoods the dance began. Anne found herself partnered to a French diplomat with a finely-trimmed moustache at the start of the dance and they began flirting outrageously in her almost native sounding French, as she took an almost reckless delight in throwing aside the feminine qualities of purity and chastity—in jest of course—that felt like twin rocks, weighing her down at the waist. Most of the dance, with its leaps and kicks passed like a dream, it was impossible to keep up if you made the mistake of thinking about your next move. Somehow, Anne found herself dancing with the king himself. One minute she was surrounded by potential partners, unsure who to choose, the next she was snapped up by Henry before she realised what was happening.
‘Anne,’ Henry murmured huskily.
‘Your highness.’
‘Please call me Henry,’ The king said leaning closer to Anne. She could smell the rich, earthy scent of copious amounts of claret on the king’s breath, he was clearly not entirely sober.
Catching the eye of one of the many waiters standing at the edges of the hall, Anne took a small glass of claret as Dutch courage: the dance moves she was about to do needed it. Not wanting to be outdone by her monarch, Anne sped up her jumps and hops as the music reached its colossal crescendo, until both herself and King Henry were nearly panting with exhaustion.
‘Your dancing is divine, Anne,’ Henry whispered in her ear before he moved in for the kiss. Anne managed to dodge his incoming lips and side-stepped away from Henry.
‘Sire, you forget your wife, the queen?’
‘Oh, that Spanish hog, she’s locked herself in her chambers. That’s her idea of Christmas cheer,’ the king muttered with the occasional belch in-between.
‘I had better find a new partner, your highness. This part of the dance has ended.’
‘So it has,’ Henry’s chubby, cherubic face had turned a blood red, ‘do not forget, Anne, I still have to deliver your gift.’
‘Of course, sire.’ Anne curtsied and once out of sight of the king, tried to run as her white satin dress embroidered with the finest gold thread rustled against the floor. Was her fate to end up like her sister, just another one of Henry’s mistresses to be used and discarded as easily as a soiled handkerchief?
A claw of a hand clamped onto her right wrist with a vice-like grip as she tried to flee the king. Anne turned to face her persecutor. It was the cardinal, his aquiline nose making him look more like a bird-of-prey than a peace-loving clergyman.
‘What do you want, cardinal?’
‘Do you have any idea what kind of game you are playing, child? This isn’t some harmless flirtation, the scheme you are planning could tear this whole country apart!’ Cardinal Wolsey exclaimed, the scarlet of his cassock mirroring the rage written into his face.
‘How dare you call me a child? I am quite capable of making my own decisions you know and becoming the king’s mistress is a mistake I don’t intend to make.’
The cardinal’s eyebrows furrowed with a look of confusion that was rare for Thomas Wolsey, it was unthinkable (at least to him) that he could have misread the situation, all of the facts pointed to Anne being a typically scheming Boleyn and yet, her reaction was not at all what he had expected. Cogs began whirring within his mind to find the right words to solve this equation. Anne must be feigning ignorance to deceive him.
‘I made your father, Anne. If you carry out your plan, I will break the Boleyn family completely. Do you understand?’
‘I understand perfectly, you use and humiliate my sister and then blame us for your own hypocrisy.’
Wolsey’s face underneath his black cap went pale. Regaining his composure, he lashed out with his tongue without his usual cold reserve, ‘Your family was quite happy to take the king’s money for your sister’s services as a wanton hussy.’
‘What choice did we have? He is the king. We are nothing. My father and I trusted you cardinal and you betrayed us.’
Anne broke free from the cardinal’s grip and ran as fast as her weary legs could carry her. Wolsey opened his mouth as if to speak, almost as if he regretted his outburst, but then his lips closed shut and he disappeared as the courtiers swarmed around him in preparation for the next section of the dance. Anne rested against the far north-western corner of the hall to gather her thoughts. A single tear dribbled down her left cheek, it was probably best if she skipped the rest of the dance.
Three red-coated yeoman of the king’s bodyguard surrounded Anne, golden Tudor roses surmounted by a bejewelled crown emblazoned on their chests. Anne quickly regained her senses and stood tall to try and retain some of the Boleyn family dignity; if they were here to arrest her, she wouldn’t be remembered as a coward.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ Anne asked the three yeomen, her voice cracking as she tried to disguise her nervousness.
‘The king wants to see you in his chambers immediately.’
Anne’s chestnut eyes surveyed the yeomen carefully, all three were tall, intimidatingly built men, as you would expect from bodyguards, but their leader who looked bald beneath his black cap had the expression of a man who was bored and felt that his current duty was beneath him. She let out a sigh of relief, surely the yeomen wouldn’t be so disinterested in her if she was about to be executed?
‘Follow me,’ the yeomen’s leader said and Anne was led through a side door into an antechamber, with scenes of leaping stags and men and hounds pursuing them carved into the wooden wall panels. Anne stared at the fear that the craftsman had encapsulated in the hunted stag’s eyes and could relate intrinsically to how the beast felt. Why couldn’t men just let her be?
She entered the king’s bedchamber, the oak four-poster bed with its luscious purple velvet hangings dominating the room. Her lord and master, King Henry VIII stood before the bed, his black taffeta bonnet encrusted with rubies (with additional swan feather accessories) was slanted fashionably to his left; he was a living and breathing emblem of the entire wealth of his prosperous kingdom. Anne curtsied as the yeomen left, her knees were beginning to ache with the constant strain of doing homage to her king.
‘You requested my presence, sire?’ Anne asked her dread lord.
‘Yes, I did Anne. I have your present waiting for you.’
In Henry’s right hand was a piece of parchment with fine traces of ink etched into it.
‘It’s a poem that I wrote about you in French, entitled Hunting. Would you like me to read it?’
Curious, Anne responded with an emphatic, ‘Yes.’
Henry began:
‘Hunting, a poem:
I chase the dainty deer
Through the dark woods,
My heart pounds with fear
As I wonder whether she could
Reciprocate my heart’s desire.
The hounds of love give chase
With the speed of a blazing fire
And I wonder what creature I face.
I fire my crossbow bolt
And yet it is I who is struck;
Cupid’s arrow gives me a jolt
I thank God for my luck.
For my heart has been captured
And tamed by you, Anne.’
Anne stood as silent as a statue as she recovered from the shock of what she
had just listened to. The king’s French pronunciation was terrible, but the poem was surprisingly—considering she was compared to a hunted animal—beautiful.
‘You wrote all of this yourself, sire?’
‘Yes, well Sir Thomas More helped with some of the lines, well, in fact, all of the lines. The passionate feeling behind it was all my own though.’
‘Your poem is most delightful, sire. But I am afraid that...’
Henry revealed a sprig of mistletoe that he had kept hidden within his left hand. ‘Ah, you cannot refuse a kiss now, my lady. It is bad luck if you do.’
‘I am flattered, sire, yet my reputation will be ruined if I accept.’
As Anne said this, Henry lowered himself onto his knees, took her hand and began proposing to her. He muttered something about seeking an annulment for his marriage to his wife and how he wanted to make Anne his queen.
Anne’s mind was whirling like the sails of a windmill, she had always dismissed Henry as an ignorant fool. Even Cardinal Wolsey had a more sophisticated mind than the king and yet, the idea of becoming queen, of all the status and freedom that position would provide—her family would reach the very pinnacle of power—was making Henry more and more attractive by the second. To be fair to Henry, he was tall and rather handsome, in a rugged, brutish kind of way. It shouldn’t be too difficult to learn to reciprocate his feelings for her, should it?
Henry, impatient for an answer, repeated his question, ‘Anne. Will you marry me and make me the happiest mortal alive by becoming my queen?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Anne exclaimed excitedly, raising the mistletoe sprig above their heads as she kissed him, ‘Merry Christmas, Henry.’