Read Online The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn by Robin Maxwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Maxwell
Ads: Link
promised he’d braid my hair. I forced my heart to calm, to brood in secret and let him soothe me with his idle talk and gentle ministrations. We spoke of my own banishment’s end, a return to Court.
“The Percy thing’s forgot and now with our family on the rise I see you back within the year.”
“Please, Christ, let it be so.”
“Thomas Wyatt asked me of your health the other day. He said a curious thing. Reminded me to bring you quills and ink. Who is it you write to? Wyatt? He’s a married man, and that is trouble you little need.” I must have blushed because he asked, “Not Percy, Anne?”
“Certainly not Percy. ‘Tis poetry I write. Wyatt gave me most encouraging words before I went away, and so I try my hand at verses.”
“A woman poet, what a thought! Will you let me see the verses? You know I write my own.”
“No, no!” I cried, saying they were badly writ, not worth the parchment used. Then I changed the subject, said ‘twas getting dark and we had a far ride to home. He helped me up and put his arms round me then and held me with a brother’s sweet embrace.
“I brought the quills and ink for you,” he said. I laid my head upon his comfortable shoulder thinking that here was one man in all the world who loved me for my self. Too sad. Too sad. Too sad.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
4 July 1524
Diary,
Last night as I prepared to lay me down to bed I heard a quiet footstep near. I found it was my brother George with candle torch who crept the circular stair to my chamber clandestinely, a gift in hand. Unwrapt, I saw the reason for his secrecy. He’d brought to me a most heretical tract, Erasmus’ “Praise of Folly” which savaged Pope and Church and Clergy for corruption, priestly greed and lechery.
I thanked him soundly. Books to read are scarce in country life and one so bold as this a prize. George lamented that he’d failed to place his hands upon the newest scandalous tome, William Tyndale’s translation into English, of the New Testament.
“The books are burned at St. Paul’s Cross,” he said, “the author persecuted, running from our own King. The volumes that miss the fire, I’m told, are passed from hand to hand. The Church, in deed your good friend Wolsey, tracks these copies down searching house to house.” He spoke in even lower tones. “All known literates are suspect, and rewards offered to informers.”
“I do not understand,” said I. “In France I read the Christian Gospels translated into French. No ban there exists. In deed ‘twas encouraged by the King’s own sister and my tutor in such things, the Duchess Alengon.”
“You forget our King is, in Rome, the Pope’s own shining star. He’s named Defender of the Faith against all Protestant heretics.”
I begged my brother that he get me Luther’s tome. ‘Twas dangerous, he said, for Henry hated Luther, writing out against the German’s works, defending Catholic sacraments. Luther all outraged had called our Sovereign a “lubberly ass, that frantic madman, King of lies.”
I laughed out loud at such audacity. George put a finger to my lips, afraid and whispered, “We are still good Catholics, are we not?”
“I suppose,” said I. “We go to mass, take communion, confess. But brother, listen.” I drew him very close. “Have you no love for these Protestant ideas? That God and man can speak together without authority of priests? I tell you now it suits me well, this New Religion.”
His hands in mine were trembling with my words. “They still burn heretics,” said George.
“I will be cautious, say nothing aloud to bring us harm. I promise you.” His trembling ceased, his posture eased. “But get me that Tyndale Bible when you can.”
He laughed and said, “Nan, you are a vixen. You’ll be the death of me, I swear.”
I bade him go, then put the volume in my hiding place behind a loose stone. I longed for daylight. A book to read! Treasure good as gold.
Before I laid me down I
“The Percy thing’s forgot and now with our family on the rise I see you back within the year.”
“Please, Christ, let it be so.”
“Thomas Wyatt asked me of your health the other day. He said a curious thing. Reminded me to bring you quills and ink. Who is it you write to? Wyatt? He’s a married man, and that is trouble you little need.” I must have blushed because he asked, “Not Percy, Anne?”
“Certainly not Percy. ‘Tis poetry I write. Wyatt gave me most encouraging words before I went away, and so I try my hand at verses.”
“A woman poet, what a thought! Will you let me see the verses? You know I write my own.”
“No, no!” I cried, saying they were badly writ, not worth the parchment used. Then I changed the subject, said ‘twas getting dark and we had a far ride to home. He helped me up and put his arms round me then and held me with a brother’s sweet embrace.
“I brought the quills and ink for you,” he said. I laid my head upon his comfortable shoulder thinking that here was one man in all the world who loved me for my self. Too sad. Too sad. Too sad.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
4 July 1524
Diary,
Last night as I prepared to lay me down to bed I heard a quiet footstep near. I found it was my brother George with candle torch who crept the circular stair to my chamber clandestinely, a gift in hand. Unwrapt, I saw the reason for his secrecy. He’d brought to me a most heretical tract, Erasmus’ “Praise of Folly” which savaged Pope and Church and Clergy for corruption, priestly greed and lechery.
I thanked him soundly. Books to read are scarce in country life and one so bold as this a prize. George lamented that he’d failed to place his hands upon the newest scandalous tome, William Tyndale’s translation into English, of the New Testament.
“The books are burned at St. Paul’s Cross,” he said, “the author persecuted, running from our own King. The volumes that miss the fire, I’m told, are passed from hand to hand. The Church, in deed your good friend Wolsey, tracks these copies down searching house to house.” He spoke in even lower tones. “All known literates are suspect, and rewards offered to informers.”
“I do not understand,” said I. “In France I read the Christian Gospels translated into French. No ban there exists. In deed ‘twas encouraged by the King’s own sister and my tutor in such things, the Duchess Alengon.”
“You forget our King is, in Rome, the Pope’s own shining star. He’s named Defender of the Faith against all Protestant heretics.”
I begged my brother that he get me Luther’s tome. ‘Twas dangerous, he said, for Henry hated Luther, writing out against the German’s works, defending Catholic sacraments. Luther all outraged had called our Sovereign a “lubberly ass, that frantic madman, King of lies.”
I laughed out loud at such audacity. George put a finger to my lips, afraid and whispered, “We are still good Catholics, are we not?”
“I suppose,” said I. “We go to mass, take communion, confess. But brother, listen.” I drew him very close. “Have you no love for these Protestant ideas? That God and man can speak together without authority of priests? I tell you now it suits me well, this New Religion.”
His hands in mine were trembling with my words. “They still burn heretics,” said George.
“I will be cautious, say nothing aloud to bring us harm. I promise you.” His trembling ceased, his posture eased. “But get me that Tyndale Bible when you can.”
He laughed and said, “Nan, you are a vixen. You’ll be the death of me, I swear.”
I bade him go, then put the volume in my hiding place behind a loose stone. I longed for daylight. A book to read! Treasure good as gold.
Before I laid me down I
Similar Books
