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Authors: Karen Harper
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better hand. She read poorly too, but my tending to that would have to wait. I vow, I had never studied geography, history or Latin verb conjugations harder than I studied the customs and courtiers of the king. The do’s and do not’s of the Tudor court astounded me.
I had to learn titles and duties—for example, an esquire of the body, like Henry Percy, was in charge of everything above and below stairs while the king slept at night. I became familiar with proper allotments in the bouche; that is, the amount and selections of food, drink, candles and fuel for each position at court. My bouche included a few coins monthly, too, but I learned I must save that to go toward His Grace’s—and mayhap this year, the Lady Anne’s—Christmas gifts. I realized I might be dependent on Cromwell for extra money, since there had been no mention of such from Sir Philip.
At first I had little to report to Cromwell, nor did the Lady Anne send me to him with missives, until this fifth day at Hampton Court when so much happened at once that I struggle to recall and record it all.
First, I must note that, although the Lady Anne I saw in my brief initial interview had then seemed reserved, polite and pensive in private, she was quite the opposite when in public. She knew her allure and how to use it, and, I must admit, I studied that. I saw now why heads, especially men’s heads, turned her way when she passed, and it wasn’t all just reflected glow from the king’s presence. She exuded enjoyment and excitement. From her time at the French court, she had evidently learned to bestow a daily bon mot on most courtiers and a tease for her king; her laughter trilled; she knew everyone’s name and, some said, their secrets.
This was the first day she whispered to me in passing, though her smile did not fade and she laughed to throw others off her purpose: “Mistress, there is a note for our friend pinned on the bottom of the stool in which you sat the day we met.” I smiled back at her as if she had made a pleasant jest.
With everyone trooping outside in order, I would have to find a solitary moment to go back to her chamber to fetch the note. I knew Cromwell and his army of clerks were ensconced near where Cardinal Wolsey still kept some privy chambers.
But, oh yes, before I recount the events of this day, I must record that Henry Tudor at age thirty-seven was a giant bestriding his world. Tall, robust, with a reddish sheen to his hair and beard and a golden sheen to his entire person, no one could best King Henry. He could out-eat, out-joust, out-dance, out-hunt, out-reason anyone. All the air seemed to suck toward him when he entered a room. His booming voice, his exuberant, hail-fellow-well-met greetings—though he could terrify one by glowering or even pouting—filled our lives. As his power spilled over onto Anne, most of his bonhomie spilled over onto us, that is, unless someone called the Spanish Catherine his queen. That is, unless someone did not show the proper demeanor to or delight in his dear Anne. That is, unless someone seemed too familiar with his sweetheart, which is what happened that day.
So her ladies followed Anne outside to the bowling green near the many acres of tiltyards. Along the gravel pathways, on tall posts, stood the king’s beasts, staring down at us as they did in the gardens and gates of the palace: the lion rampant, the red dragon of Wales, antlered deer, griffins and unicorns and all manner of ornately carved, painted and gilded creatures.
I had heard of the game of bowls but had never seen it played, so I hoped no one would ask me to take part. At dancing, I had been included. I had been nervous, then delighted when I found myself paired for a pavane with Tom Seymour, whom I had not seen in the crowd. He had asked me to meet him out by the fishpond in the gardens that night. I might have been entranced enough to do so, but the Lady Anne had retired early that evening with pain from her
I had to learn titles and duties—for example, an esquire of the body, like Henry Percy, was in charge of everything above and below stairs while the king slept at night. I became familiar with proper allotments in the bouche; that is, the amount and selections of food, drink, candles and fuel for each position at court. My bouche included a few coins monthly, too, but I learned I must save that to go toward His Grace’s—and mayhap this year, the Lady Anne’s—Christmas gifts. I realized I might be dependent on Cromwell for extra money, since there had been no mention of such from Sir Philip.
At first I had little to report to Cromwell, nor did the Lady Anne send me to him with missives, until this fifth day at Hampton Court when so much happened at once that I struggle to recall and record it all.
First, I must note that, although the Lady Anne I saw in my brief initial interview had then seemed reserved, polite and pensive in private, she was quite the opposite when in public. She knew her allure and how to use it, and, I must admit, I studied that. I saw now why heads, especially men’s heads, turned her way when she passed, and it wasn’t all just reflected glow from the king’s presence. She exuded enjoyment and excitement. From her time at the French court, she had evidently learned to bestow a daily bon mot on most courtiers and a tease for her king; her laughter trilled; she knew everyone’s name and, some said, their secrets.
This was the first day she whispered to me in passing, though her smile did not fade and she laughed to throw others off her purpose: “Mistress, there is a note for our friend pinned on the bottom of the stool in which you sat the day we met.” I smiled back at her as if she had made a pleasant jest.
With everyone trooping outside in order, I would have to find a solitary moment to go back to her chamber to fetch the note. I knew Cromwell and his army of clerks were ensconced near where Cardinal Wolsey still kept some privy chambers.
But, oh yes, before I recount the events of this day, I must record that Henry Tudor at age thirty-seven was a giant bestriding his world. Tall, robust, with a reddish sheen to his hair and beard and a golden sheen to his entire person, no one could best King Henry. He could out-eat, out-joust, out-dance, out-hunt, out-reason anyone. All the air seemed to suck toward him when he entered a room. His booming voice, his exuberant, hail-fellow-well-met greetings—though he could terrify one by glowering or even pouting—filled our lives. As his power spilled over onto Anne, most of his bonhomie spilled over onto us, that is, unless someone called the Spanish Catherine his queen. That is, unless someone did not show the proper demeanor to or delight in his dear Anne. That is, unless someone seemed too familiar with his sweetheart, which is what happened that day.
So her ladies followed Anne outside to the bowling green near the many acres of tiltyards. Along the gravel pathways, on tall posts, stood the king’s beasts, staring down at us as they did in the gardens and gates of the palace: the lion rampant, the red dragon of Wales, antlered deer, griffins and unicorns and all manner of ornately carved, painted and gilded creatures.
I had heard of the game of bowls but had never seen it played, so I hoped no one would ask me to take part. At dancing, I had been included. I had been nervous, then delighted when I found myself paired for a pavane with Tom Seymour, whom I had not seen in the crowd. He had asked me to meet him out by the fishpond in the gardens that night. I might have been entranced enough to do so, but the Lady Anne had retired early that evening with pain from her
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