She had known Thomas Wyatt since childhood, for their families were neighbors in Kent, and the young Wyatts, Tom and his sister Margaret, had been regular guests at Hever. In other circumstances she might have loved him. Some ladies would not have thought twice about accepting his suit and becoming his acknowledged mistress. They would enjoy having mastery over so handsome a man, and might even be tempted to become his mistress in the carnal sense. But he was married and, for Anne, forbidden territory. She had rejected all his overtures, yet that had not stopped him from paying court, playing the game in the accepted way. But why should she waste her chances on a man who had nothing to offer her?
She did like him. If only she had not told him that at the outset. Yet, knowing him to have the sensitive soul of a poet, she had been loath to hurt him, because it was plain as day that he loved her. He haunted the palace galleries she frequented; he waylaid her on her way from chapel or the Queen’s apartments; he sang beautiful ballads in the Queen’s chamber, gazing at her with longing eyes; he passed her notes. “I love you,” he wrote. “Be kind to your unworthy but suffering suitor.” And then, of course, there were the endless poems composed for her alone. And all, all she had spurned.
Now he was making another bid for her favor, as he recited his new verses in that deep, musical voice.
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet.
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;
The painful patience in denials,
Forget not yet.
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this.
“Bravo!” the others cried. Anne knew that Tom was looking at her, willing her to praise his work, but she merely smiled.
“I must get back to the Queen,” she said, rising.
“Will you be at the revels tonight, Mistress Anne?” he asked, as eager as a lapdog for a crumb of encouragement.
“Of course she will,” Francis Bryan told him. “How could one of the brightest young stars of the court not be there?”
“I may come,” Anne said, not looking at Tom. Since returning from Hever, she had thrown herself enthusiastically into the life of the court and become the focus of much admiration. Young people seemed drawn to her, and she was now at the heart of a circle of privileged courtiers whose aim was to enjoy themselves to the full while chasing preferment and success.
The Queen had warmly welcomed Anne back into favor.
“I am pleased to see you wearing English fashions,” she told her.
“My French gowns were becoming a little worn,” Anne replied. “I refurbished some, and made some new ones.” Fortunately, once Father had learned that she was going back to court, he had proved generous with money for material.
The King had noticed the gowns, too.
“I see you are become an Englishwoman again, Mistress Anne,” he’d said, encountering her in a gallery and bowing. “In truth, since we are at war with France, I was wondering which side you were really on!” And he laughed at his own joke, his gentlemen guffawing with him. She kept her eyes downcast and murmured her thanks, thinking that she had little cause to thank him for anything.
Several times since then she had again noticed him watching her, but always she had avoided his singling her out. She wanted nothing to do with this man who had brought down her sister and allowed the Cardinal to wreck her own life.
In March, Anne was relieved to hear that Mary had been safely delivered of a son, Henry, who, Mother wrote, was unmistakably Will Carey’s child. Mary had put her affair with the King firmly behind her, and was now a happy wife and mother. Things had worked out rather well, Anne thought, as she made her way to the Queen’s lodging. Relations between her and Mary were warmer these days, now that Mary was fulfilled in the ways that mattered to her. Anne did envy her a little, but she would not have exchanged her sister’s life of domesticity for the exciting existence that was now hers.
—
Standing with the other ladies behind Katherine in the presence chamber at Bridewell Palace in London, Anne could barely contain her excitement, or her triumph. Today, Father was to be ennobled, advanced to the peerage as Viscount Rochford.
This was the latest in a string of honors recently bestowed on him, and it was one to which he was entitled by virtue of Great-Grandfather Ormond having held the title. But, Anne knew, he believed it was being given to him as compensation for not receiving the earldom of Ormond, which he was still contesting, and—much to his disgust—for the dishonoring of his daughter.
She watched as he entered the chamber and knelt before the King, who placed the mantle of nobility around his shoulders and handed him his Letters Patent. It struck her as incongruous that such pomp should be compensation for the sordid seduction of her sister. “The wages of sin,” she observed, unthinking. Still she could not see it in any other way.
Immediately the Queen turned round and frowned at her, and she was covered in embarrassment. But there was no time to regret her faux pas, for all eyes were on the little boy who was approaching the throne—the King’s bastard son, Henry Fitzroy, come to be ennobled by his father. There were muffled gasps when his titles were announced: Duke of Richmond, Duke of Somerset. The Queen’s smile was frozen on her face. It took a moment for Anne to realize that these were royal titles. No wonder there was excited speculation afterward; no wonder Katherine was unable to hide her outrage. For Anne heard many people expressing the view that His Grace meant to name the boy his heir. And really, who could blame him? The child was beautiful, strong, and sturdy: he carried himself like a prince already; and there was no sign of the Queen bearing another child. Nor would there be, Anne was certain. The chamberers of Katherine’s household had not had a bloody clout to wash for over a year now. It was common knowledge among her servants.
It was a pity, Anne thought, that the King’s bastard daughter could not enjoy his favor. Maybe one day he would arrange a good marriage for her. It was the least he could do.
—
“Well done!” Anne cried, clapping her hands, as George raised his racquet aloft and whooped in triumph. Beside her in the tennis court, Jane, her sister-in-law, was silent, her face as sour as it had been these past months. Anne wondered what was the matter with her. George was morose in her company, and only became his usual lively self when she was not there.
“Is something amiss?” Anne asked, a trifle tartly, as she and Jane left the viewing gallery and made their way into the gardens, which smelled sweet after a summer shower. Here they waited for George. She was aware of Tom Wyatt shadowing her, a few paces behind, in the press of people.
Jane turned on her a face full of misery. “You would not believe me if I told you,” she said. “George can do no wrong in your eyes.”
Anne was startled at the resentment in her voice. “You have not tried me,” she retorted. “If my brother is making you unhappy, I may be able to help.” She guessed that George’s philandering was the cause of Jane’s unhappiness. He was always flirting openly with other women, and there was talk that he had a bastard son. She had taxed him with it, but he had denied it.
“Well I’m sure he’d pay more heed to you than to me,” Jane muttered. “If only you knew what he’s really like.”