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August 9, 1527
-OUTSIDE, THE sky was a merry shade of blue, and the sun twinkled over the vast, sprawling green fields.
Anne read through the thick book Henry had gifted her, and paused. She heard movement at the door.
"My lady, your father is here to see you," the sentry said, bowing.
A dour man with flinty eyes came into the room. Anne smiled and closed her book lightly. "Father," she said as Thomas Boleyn leaned and kissed his daughter softly on the cheek. "My dear Anne," he said.
Anne signalled the sentry to leave.
"Is the King still...?" It was a normal question now; Anne was used to it. What she found funny and amusing was that her father, though ambitious enough to put his daughter out for the King, couldn't wholly accept the whole thing, couldn't even put it to proper words. Anne's uncle, though, the Duke of Norfolk...he was of a different sort. She remembered his cold eyes staring into her as she was told of her task, after the King had tired of bedding her sister Mary.
"The King seems to be done with your sister," Anne's uncle had said quietly, looking her over. He seemed to ignore the fact that Mary herself stood next to Anne. The whole family, except George, who was mysteriously absent, had gathered in the room, which was dimly-lit. The light of the candles danced in her uncle's eyes.
Foolish, simple and endearing Mary. She was always so eager to give; so eager to love. "But I love the King, and he has told me so, whenever I would go to him," the girl had retorted, her eyes dampening. Anne looked at her, and was torn between wanting to comfort her sister and wanting to slap her for being a simpering, naive fool.
"Anne, your job now is to please the King," the Duke of Norfolk went on, as if Mary had not spoken. Anne raised her eyebrows, amused. She wished her brother George was beside her. She would like to see how he would take the news.
Thomas had nodded, consenting without a word, powerless as usual in the formidable presence of his brother-in-law. Mary turned wildly to her mother, standing motionless beside the Duke.
"You will do what is needed to be done for this family," she said in a stony voice. "For you, that means marrying a man of good station."
The Duke waved his hand and sighed. "On to other matters. Anne, you know well of the benefits of being the King's Mistress...and we may have a bigger plan for you as well," he said quietly. Anne had frowned. "And what then, when's he's finished with me? I have heard that his tastes and liaisons change as quickly as the sun sets below the horizon," she had said evenly. "That is why you must work hard to keep his love for you strong," the Duke replied coolly, "You must influence him. His right-hand man, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey...he is no friend of ours. We want him gone; and with your influence on the King you can help us with that."
Anne had taken in her uncle's flinty, dark eyes and her father's expectant gaze, her mother's staunch expression, her sister's confused demeanour.
"I'll do it," she replied.
And so she had. What fun it was! Anne remembered sending back the exquisite jewels and diamonds the King sent her; remembered meeting him in long, dark hallways, and playing the shy maid with him.
"No, your Majesty, your Grace; my King," she had always breathed in those occasions, her dark eyes looking up at him endearingly. "My sweet Anne," he would say quietly, taking her hands and kissing her dainty, long neck.
"I can't," she would persist breathlessly. "No, my King, my sweet, strong King. I cannot give myself to you; not when a Queen sits on the throne, not when there are people around you to see us; not when you could tire of me like you did with my sister, and others before her."
That had done it. Henry's eyes lit up with lust and adoration. "My dear Anne," he cooed sweetly, "I will never forsake you. I promise you; I have no love for Katharine." "That is all well, yet...she is still Queen." Anne paused then, thinking she was slightly going off-track to what her duke uncle wanted; did they intend for her to flirt her way to the throne? Anne was never wholly sure. But she saw her chance, and her ambition rose and soared higher than a falcon.
"Not while she's Queen can I give myself to you, my sweet," she had said then, taking his hands, kissing them and sailing away, her black dress swirling around her feet. She could only imagine the look on his face.
And now her father and uncle caught on to what she was doing, and were persisting her to keep going. "You need his utmost devotion and love," her father was telling her now, as Anne snapped out of her reverie. "If you want to succeed..."
Anne laughed. "Father, I have got him begging and grovelling at my heels."
With a sudden flash, her father grabbed her arms. "Don't speak like that," he said quietly, his eyes wide and fearful. Anne raised her eyebrows. "Why ever not? I am the King's Whore, am I not allowed to voice my opinions?"
The light comment didn't appease her father. "To speak so lightly can be dismissed as treason, Anne. Treason. You understand what that means?" Anne simply laughed once more, sailing to her seat by the window and taking her book again.
She opened it at her marked page. "I know what it means, father. I'll take care, do not worry so." Anne caught sight of her reflection in the glass pane; her long, dark hair and her even darker eyes. She flashed herself a smile.
"I shall be Queen very soon, do not worry. My King will deliver me to the throne soon enough."
YOU ARE READING
The Six
Historical Fiction'Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived." In this way, the six wives of Henry VIII were remembered not for how they lived, but in the way they died. It is impossible to know exactly what they were thinking or had to go through, in h...
