The Tudor Wife. Emily Purdy

away to speak briefly with Sir Henry Norris, a dear friend as well as his Groom of the Stool, his most personal body servant. Anne dismissed the King from her thoughts as if he were no more than any other boring boy she had encountered at a dance, and headed straight for where Harry Percy sat; she never looked back. But as they stole away together, Henry’s eyes followed them, beady blue and crafty, and his rings flashed a rainbow in the candlelight as he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Then he turned and crooked a finger to summon Wolsey

      .

      The Cardinal hurried instantly to his side. Though their words were hushed, Henry’s expression was adamant, and the Cardinal’s most perplexed. ‘See to it!’ the King snapped before he resumed his throne, ignoring Catherine’s gentle, inquiring smile, and brusquely brushing aside the hand she laid lightly upon his sleeve.

      The golden light of the torches spilled out into the garden, and there, upon a carpet of soft green grass, Anne and her darling Percy danced alone. I watched them from the terrace. When he swung her high into the air during lavolta, Anne flung back her head and laughed joyously. In that moment, I think, her happiness was complete. It was then that Percy stumbled. Anne fell. She landed, laughing still, and rolled upon her back, the grass and her full skirts cushioning her fall. Percy was all concern. But when he bent over her, Anne seized his outstretched hand and pulled him down so that he lay on top of her. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him long and lingeringly. Only then did she let him help her up and escort her back inside. They never noticed me as they passed, arm in arm, smiling and staring deep into each other’s eyes. Never before had I seen two people so much in love. I thought of myself and George then, and nearly sank down and wept. We had danced together twice, and he was always gallant and polite, but when he looked at me there was no love in his eyes, only courtesy and…indifference. And, despite all my attempts, I could not kindle a flame, not even a spark.

      

      Weeks passed and life went on as usual. My sense of foreboding faded and I even began to think I had been mistaken. But no, it was only a quiet lull during which the storm lay dormant, gathering its strength.

      It was upon the night of a lavish banquet to welcome the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Queen Catherine’s nephew, that the lightning first flashed in earnest.

      At Wolsey’s opulent palace, York Place, an elaborate masque was to be staged and Anne and I were among those privileged to take part.

      After the banquet, we hurried to the chamber that had been designated our tiring room to don our costumes. Flustered and flush-faced with excitement, we all fluttered about, chattering and screeching like caged birds, nervous fingers fussing with the laces of our gowns, fidgeting with the pearl- and gold-tipped pins and shimmering golden nets that secured our hair beneath the gold-and-crystal-bordered white satin French hoods, and snapping and slapping at the maids who knelt to hastily repair a loose hem or sagging sleeve.

      It was to be a battle royal between the Virtues and the Vices. Perhaps I should have taken as a portent the roles assigned to us. Anne was Perseverance, her sister Mary was Kindness, and I was cast as Constancy.

      In shimmering satin gowns of angel white, with sashes becomingly draped across our breasts embroidered in golden letters with the name of the Virtue we had been chosen to represent, we took our places upon the battlements of a large castle crafted of plaster and papier-mâché, painted in the royal Tudor colors of white and green, that had been wheeled into the Great Hall. Countless candles lit the scene, and the Cardinal’s boy choir and musicians provided heavenly music.

      Suddenly a shrill, fiendish screech pierced the air and in rushed the Vices—Cruelty, Jealousy, Disdain, Malice, Envy, Slander, Wantonness, and Danger. Brandishing and cracking whips, they were gowned in jet-glittering black with embroidered hell-flames of orange, yellow, and scarlet lapping at their skirts and bodices upon which in flaming letters their Vices were blazoned, and red devil horns adorned their heads of dark, unruly, free-flowing hair.

      As the music soared we made a great show of panic, beseeching the heavens to send us aid, while we pelted our attackers with a volley of sugarplums, oranges, dates, figs, and nuts. Then, with a fanfare of trumpets, rescue came in the form of seven Knights clad in Our Lady’s Blue satin, their cloaks embroidered with flaming hearts, and blue-dyed plumes swaying gracefully upon their golden helmets, each one bearing a shield emblazoned with his title. George was Sir Loyal Heart, and Francis Weston and Harry Percy were aptly cast as Amorous Youth and Gentleness. They were led by the tall and majestic figure of King Henry VIII himself, head to toe in scarlet and hearts aflame. Ardent Desire his shield and lusty, determined gaze proclaimed.

      In a mock battle the Knights danced the Vices to their defeat and the demonic temptresses crumpled at their feet and begged for mercy. The Knights pulled them up roughly and set them spinning, twirling away as, with an adamant, imperious wave—‘Be Gone!’—they banished them.

      The trumpets blared and the choir sang hallelujah as we showered our saviors with rose petals of red and white. With hands upon their hearts they knelt and beseeched us to come down from our lofty perches.

      After a great show of maidenly modesty, we relented and let Beauty—the King’s sister Mary, Duchess of Suffolk, and erstwhile Queen of France—lead us down. She had reigned for less than a year before old King Louis died, and was famous for her shining red-gold hair, lily-white skin, and determination to trade the title of Queen for that of Duchess and marry the love of her life, Charles Brandon.

      Then confusion came and threatened to dissolve the intricately choreographed masque into chaos. Ardent Desire was supposed to lay claim to Beauty and lead her out to dance, and Sir Loyal Heart and Perseverance were likewise to be partnered, and so forth. Nothing was left to chance; our dancing partners had been assigned to us from the first day of rehearsals. Yet King Henry bypassed his sister and boldly seized Anne’s wrist.

      With a cheeky grin, Francis Weston disdained Honor and besought Madge Shelton to bestow Charity upon Amorous Youth instead. And Harry Percy slipped upon a sugarplum and skidded into the arms of Pity instead of Mercy.

      An anxious moment ensued as those of us who remained hastily sorted ourselves into pairs. I for one did not hesitate and boldly grabbed George’s hand even as he reached for Mercy, Sir Thomas Wyatt’s pretty blond-haired sister Meg Lee, who was rumored to have been George’s childhood sweetheart.

      And then, upon the sweetmeat- and petal-strewn floor, with the nuts crunching and fruits squashing beneath our satin slippers, we danced a graceful but lively measure that ended with a flourish when the Knights swept the Virtues up into their arms and carried them away. They had defeated Vice, claimed their prizes, and would live to dance and fight another day.

      As George followed close on the heels of the King, I was there to see how the King tarried before setting Anne down. He seemed determined to linger there with her in his arms, despite Beauty’s icy blue, disapproving stare. It was only when Devotion, his brother-in-law, auburn-bearded Charles Brandon, clapped him jovially upon the back and exclaimed ‘Well danced, Sire!’ that he released her.

      ‘Mistress Anne,’ he said as she curtsied low before him, reaching out to tilt her chin up so she would look at him, ‘Ardent Desire and Perseverance dance well together. Perhaps next time we shall change roles; I should like that very much.’ And with those words he left her.

      Anne sprang up and turned anxiously to George, her lips trembling with a question she dared not ask.

      ‘Court gallantry, darling Nan.’ George smiled reassuringly and squeezed her hand.

      ‘You are sure, George? Only that and nothing more?’ she asked, clutching desperately at his hand while her eyes searched his. ‘When he held me close against his chest and looked into my eyes I felt naked and cold as death!’

      Before George could answer, a new drama ensued to divert Anne’s attention. During the dance, poor Harry Percy had trod upon a walnut, and its shell had punctured the thin sole of his dancing slipper. Now he limped over, trailing a trickle of blood. Anne instantly began to fuss over him, just like a mother hen instead of the suave, Frenchified sophisticate she really was. And, supported by Nobility, Pleasure,