Free The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn by Robin Maxwell Page B

Sister Mary’d warmed his bed not six months past. Twenty crashing trumpets and as many drums intruded on my fantasies as the joust began. Sound and colors, men in flashing steel on quivering horseflesh. The King astride his steed approached the Queen and as her favorite received, as custom told, her gossamer scarf for luck. But there within his gaze I saw nothing for his wife, no love, no care and in hers a pain so bright it hurt my eyes.
    The joust began, all knights and soldiers taking part, each great and ghastly charge with screams and cheers and curses, crashing armor, terrible falls and trampling hooves. Thomas Wyatt challenged Henry and was unhorsed. Unharmed, in good cheer to be beaten by his master, they strode arm and arm from the jousting field.
    At the banquet in a festooned chamber made of woven alder boughs and fragrant flowers, I was seated next to Wyatt who was very well and jolly in the candlelight.
    “Tell me, when did Henry steal the part of Robyn Hoode from Lord Benton?” I asked.
    “When he found ‘twas you would play Maid Marion. When the masque began and you were nowhere to be found, ‘twas clear he was distracted.”
    “And when I suddenly appeared?”
    “Anne, I needn’t tell you what he felt. I’m sure you felt it too.”
    My cheeks burned red. I grabbed the goblet, drank some wine to cover my embarrassment and changed the banter then to something less unwise, and Thomas did oblige.
    But later when I took my rest from dancing in the cool darkness of the woods beyond the torch light, this night’s mystery and adventure full unfolded. I’d bent to fix my slipper when I felt a pair of manly hands behind me covering my eyes. He was tall with broad shoulders and I thought it Thomas Wyatt.
    “Have you writ your poem to me?” I said flirtatiously, then stood and turned to him. And for the second time that day, surprised, I found myself within the King of England’s firm embrace.
    “Poem?” He was smiling down at me. “So you require a verse extolling all your beauty and your charm?”
    So strange. After that exchange all manner of emotion welled up within my breast and limbs and head. Fear, then courage, desire, then loathing, sweetness, bitterness, memories of past and thoughts of future, too. In that small moment when silence hung between his last words and my next phrase I felt a calm descend like some winged angel o’er my head. Courage slew fear and then I spoke.
    “Haven’t I virtues enough to make a pretty verse of me?”
    “More than enough.” His eyes bored into me.
    I gently pulled away beyond his arms. “Well, begin.”
    “What?” he said confused.
    “Begin the poetry. I’m waiting, Sire.”
    He laughed out loud at my audacity, calling me a demanding wench, but took the challenge up like a leather gauntlet thrown upon the ground. He began:
    “As the holly groweth and never changeth hue / So I am, ever hath been, unto my lady true.”
    “Yes, go on.”
    “As the holly groweth green, with ivy all alone / When flowers cannot be seen: and the greenwood leaves be gone …
    “Now unto my lady promise to her I make … From all others only to her I me betake.”
    “Excellent, Your Majesty!” said I and clapped my hands.
    “Now do I get a kiss?”
    “You’ve had your kiss already, on the stage.”
    “Then I’ll have what comes after.” He pulled me back into his sturdy arms.
    “Stop it!” I cried and wrenched free.
    “You tell your King to stop? How dare you?”
    My heart was pounding in my chest. “For his own good,” said I, “protecting him from certain incestuous liaisons.”
    Even in the shadows I could see his face go flush with rage. “Incestuous?!” He seemed stricken, confused. Was I speaking of his sore and sinful marriage to his brother’s wife?
    “May I speak plainly, Majesty? My Sister Mary not so long ago shared your bed,” then whispered, “bore your child. For me to do the same it seems… incestuous.”
    Relieved and gathering his wits