desires enough to marry. Wyatt is my only serious suitor , and he is already wed!”
“That’s ridiculous. They all want you. It’s just that they know they can’t have you.”
Before I can stop it a little sob erupts from my throat, surprising even myself. George, still on his knees, grips my hands tighter. “Anne, Anne, my silly Anne. Don’t you know how … how … brilliant you are? Give it time. You have lots of time before you. Be patient.”
He buries his head in my skirts, his breath warming my lap . I look down at his dark, close clipped hair, a glimpse of scalp beneath. With a deep sigh I lay my hand upon it, promising myself that I will wait. George is right, I am young yet and marriage will come when I least expect it.
***
Before the year is out, Mary confides that she is once more with child. When her condition can be hidden no longer, she is packed off home. While she kisses George and I goodbye, Will Carey waits to assist her into a carriage “Take care, Mary,” I say, trying not to notice the tear that escapes her control to trickle down her cheek. “Just think how lovely it will be to see baby Catherine again.”
She tries to smile, her mouth quivering as George secures a fur about her knees. Will leaves a brotherly kiss on my cheek. “Take care of her, Will,” I murmur, “she may carry your heir this time.”
He flushes scarlet, and wary of giving himself away, does not meet my eye. I watch him mount his horse, gather the reins and prepare to ride off. None of us, not even Mary, can be sure if the child is her husband’s or the king’s, but this time I pray for Will’s sake that the child will not be branded with the ruddy complexion of the Tudors.
As they drive away, Mary leans from the window , waving while her husband rides stony-faced beside the carriage. As the dust of the road settles around us, I lay a hand on George’s arm and he leads me inside.
It is quiet and rather lonely without Mary. Although I am surrounded by women, there are none whom I can call a real friend. The next day , I trail in the queen’s footsteps as we promenade around the garden. If I feel a pang on passing the arbour where Percy and I first kissed, I do not dwell on it but keep my eyes turned firmly away. I might lack a sweetheart, but I realise now that the feelings I once had for Percy were nothing more than calf-love; a practice for the real thing. All the same, I long to be kissed again.
When will I have a real sweetheart?
Tom Wyatt’s laughing face swims like a naughty secret in my mind. There is always Tom, of course, who remains as devoted as ever, but I cannot forget his wife. Although she is kept far away from court, she represents an unbreakable barrier. No matter how sweet his poetry, or how ardent his kisses, I will allow myself to be no man’s concubine.
And there is the proposed match with James Butler, but I don’t believe that will ever come to anything, not the way he and Father are wrangling over who should have the Ormond estate. Father and I want a man who is free to love me. I dream of a handsome knight with a song on his lips and a glint in his eye. Sometimes after supper , as we listen to the songs of the minstrels, I sigh for love but I have to acknowledge, love does not seem to be sighing for want of me.
February 1526
The king no longer comes to the queen’s bed. The ladies of her privy chamber report that she prays constantly, begging for a child, for her husband to come to her, for her courses to begin again, but we all know that none of this will ever happen. Even a queen cannot turn back time, and to Henry, who is by several years Catherine’s junior, she is an old woman, a dried husk who has no chance of proving fruitful.
“The king says the marriage is cursed,” George whispers to me when we are alone. “Yesterday he was quoting Leviticus, saying God wills him to be childless because he married his brother’s widow.”
In her youth , Catherine was indeed
“That’s ridiculous. They all want you. It’s just that they know they can’t have you.”
Before I can stop it a little sob erupts from my throat, surprising even myself. George, still on his knees, grips my hands tighter. “Anne, Anne, my silly Anne. Don’t you know how … how … brilliant you are? Give it time. You have lots of time before you. Be patient.”
He buries his head in my skirts, his breath warming my lap . I look down at his dark, close clipped hair, a glimpse of scalp beneath. With a deep sigh I lay my hand upon it, promising myself that I will wait. George is right, I am young yet and marriage will come when I least expect it.
***
Before the year is out, Mary confides that she is once more with child. When her condition can be hidden no longer, she is packed off home. While she kisses George and I goodbye, Will Carey waits to assist her into a carriage “Take care, Mary,” I say, trying not to notice the tear that escapes her control to trickle down her cheek. “Just think how lovely it will be to see baby Catherine again.”
She tries to smile, her mouth quivering as George secures a fur about her knees. Will leaves a brotherly kiss on my cheek. “Take care of her, Will,” I murmur, “she may carry your heir this time.”
He flushes scarlet, and wary of giving himself away, does not meet my eye. I watch him mount his horse, gather the reins and prepare to ride off. None of us, not even Mary, can be sure if the child is her husband’s or the king’s, but this time I pray for Will’s sake that the child will not be branded with the ruddy complexion of the Tudors.
As they drive away, Mary leans from the window , waving while her husband rides stony-faced beside the carriage. As the dust of the road settles around us, I lay a hand on George’s arm and he leads me inside.
It is quiet and rather lonely without Mary. Although I am surrounded by women, there are none whom I can call a real friend. The next day , I trail in the queen’s footsteps as we promenade around the garden. If I feel a pang on passing the arbour where Percy and I first kissed, I do not dwell on it but keep my eyes turned firmly away. I might lack a sweetheart, but I realise now that the feelings I once had for Percy were nothing more than calf-love; a practice for the real thing. All the same, I long to be kissed again.
When will I have a real sweetheart?
Tom Wyatt’s laughing face swims like a naughty secret in my mind. There is always Tom, of course, who remains as devoted as ever, but I cannot forget his wife. Although she is kept far away from court, she represents an unbreakable barrier. No matter how sweet his poetry, or how ardent his kisses, I will allow myself to be no man’s concubine.
And there is the proposed match with James Butler, but I don’t believe that will ever come to anything, not the way he and Father are wrangling over who should have the Ormond estate. Father and I want a man who is free to love me. I dream of a handsome knight with a song on his lips and a glint in his eye. Sometimes after supper , as we listen to the songs of the minstrels, I sigh for love but I have to acknowledge, love does not seem to be sighing for want of me.
February 1526
The king no longer comes to the queen’s bed. The ladies of her privy chamber report that she prays constantly, begging for a child, for her husband to come to her, for her courses to begin again, but we all know that none of this will ever happen. Even a queen cannot turn back time, and to Henry, who is by several years Catherine’s junior, she is an old woman, a dried husk who has no chance of proving fruitful.
“The king says the marriage is cursed,” George whispers to me when we are alone. “Yesterday he was quoting Leviticus, saying God wills him to be childless because he married his brother’s widow.”
In her youth , Catherine was indeed
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