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Authors: Robin Maxwell
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went to bended knee, the bedchamber my chapel — blasphemy — and called to Jesus Christ my Lord in supplication to save my miserable soul… and soon to bring me back to Court.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
E LIZABETH FOUND HERSELF TREMBLING
as she closed her mother’s diary. Coming back into her own world from Anne’s was not unlike a barge gliding out from under the shadows of London Bridge into the blinding daylight. But tonight, with many of the candles Kat had lit round the chair having flickered out, the room was dark and gloomy outside the small halo of remaining light, and her eyes were fatigued.
Kat had become suspicious of these strange sessions. The secrecy irritated the Mistress of the Maids, for Elizabeth had never kept a secret from Kat since earliest nursery days. She’d complain about the Queen looking tired with great dark circles under her eyes after a night awake, or when Elizabeth remained silent about her solitary exercises behind closed doors, mutter quietly about evil habits and the Devil’s work.
Pinwheels of light swam before Elizabeth’s eyes and pain swelled in her head. When she stood she was gripped with a terrible nausea that made her clutch the chair for support. It was surely the onset of one of her bad headaches.
“Damn head!” she hissed. Her forehead was clammy and she was not at all sure she could make it to her bed. If this was the effect that reading her mother’s diary had on her, thought Elizabeth, it would take forever to finish it. But the idea was driven from the Queen’s mind as a bolt of pain crashed through her skull. She had barely the strength to call for her ladies to help her before the spinning lights inside her head grew dark.
6 November 1525
Diary,
I have not writ in so long, for all reports from Hever would have talked of nothing more than ennui. But now I am gratefully received at Court again, back in service to the Queen. I sleep in close quarters with Her Majesty and other waiting ladies, in all we are seven. The time is lively spent with our King setting the daily pace — we never seem to sleep. Falconing, hunting — Henry is said to tire never less than eight or ten horses on a day — he wrestles, jousts. And watching him play at tennis is the prettiest thing in all the world. His favorite foe is Thomas Wyatt in whom he’s met his match. We sing, play on flutes and virginals — my pretty voice is popular — and dance most evenings. The Queens years are showing next to Henrys own vitality. Mayhaps his wandering eyes and hands and heart dull her spirit, for it seems her ladies shine more brightly than does she.
My Father, raised to lofty heights, has new permission from the King to bring his household to the Court and live. My Mother, therefore with him has apartments in the palace, a rare favor, which I think she’s glad of. Two pretty panelled rooms with fine carven cupboards filled with plate and silk hangings o’er a great bed. No more dreary Hever, endless days of stitching till the fingers bleed. Beautiful still, my Mother takes her days in quiet grace. I see her watching from afar as younger women play the courtly game. Me she watches closely saying little. ‘Tis clear I am my Father’s charge, and he has plans for me. Plans he’ll not divulge.
Cardinal Wolsey, gaining power, wealth and property with every passing day thro Henry’s faith in him, never sees me, even when I’m in his sight. He remembers nothing of his punishment to Percy and to me, nothing of the pain he caused. But I remember, O do I remember! Poor Percy, he is banished still. I must admit my heart’s grown ever colder since the loss of him. I have many playful suitors. They mean nothing. I will let my heart feel nothing. It is my part, I know, to play this game but I am not required to feel, and to be sure there’s no one who will care. I’m a pretty ornament, some property to buy and sell. So I’ll not give my heart to any one.
Last night at supper hour there was
Yours faithfully,
Anne
E LIZABETH FOUND HERSELF TREMBLING
as she closed her mother’s diary. Coming back into her own world from Anne’s was not unlike a barge gliding out from under the shadows of London Bridge into the blinding daylight. But tonight, with many of the candles Kat had lit round the chair having flickered out, the room was dark and gloomy outside the small halo of remaining light, and her eyes were fatigued.
Kat had become suspicious of these strange sessions. The secrecy irritated the Mistress of the Maids, for Elizabeth had never kept a secret from Kat since earliest nursery days. She’d complain about the Queen looking tired with great dark circles under her eyes after a night awake, or when Elizabeth remained silent about her solitary exercises behind closed doors, mutter quietly about evil habits and the Devil’s work.
Pinwheels of light swam before Elizabeth’s eyes and pain swelled in her head. When she stood she was gripped with a terrible nausea that made her clutch the chair for support. It was surely the onset of one of her bad headaches.
“Damn head!” she hissed. Her forehead was clammy and she was not at all sure she could make it to her bed. If this was the effect that reading her mother’s diary had on her, thought Elizabeth, it would take forever to finish it. But the idea was driven from the Queen’s mind as a bolt of pain crashed through her skull. She had barely the strength to call for her ladies to help her before the spinning lights inside her head grew dark.
6 November 1525
Diary,
I have not writ in so long, for all reports from Hever would have talked of nothing more than ennui. But now I am gratefully received at Court again, back in service to the Queen. I sleep in close quarters with Her Majesty and other waiting ladies, in all we are seven. The time is lively spent with our King setting the daily pace — we never seem to sleep. Falconing, hunting — Henry is said to tire never less than eight or ten horses on a day — he wrestles, jousts. And watching him play at tennis is the prettiest thing in all the world. His favorite foe is Thomas Wyatt in whom he’s met his match. We sing, play on flutes and virginals — my pretty voice is popular — and dance most evenings. The Queens years are showing next to Henrys own vitality. Mayhaps his wandering eyes and hands and heart dull her spirit, for it seems her ladies shine more brightly than does she.
My Father, raised to lofty heights, has new permission from the King to bring his household to the Court and live. My Mother, therefore with him has apartments in the palace, a rare favor, which I think she’s glad of. Two pretty panelled rooms with fine carven cupboards filled with plate and silk hangings o’er a great bed. No more dreary Hever, endless days of stitching till the fingers bleed. Beautiful still, my Mother takes her days in quiet grace. I see her watching from afar as younger women play the courtly game. Me she watches closely saying little. ‘Tis clear I am my Father’s charge, and he has plans for me. Plans he’ll not divulge.
Cardinal Wolsey, gaining power, wealth and property with every passing day thro Henry’s faith in him, never sees me, even when I’m in his sight. He remembers nothing of his punishment to Percy and to me, nothing of the pain he caused. But I remember, O do I remember! Poor Percy, he is banished still. I must admit my heart’s grown ever colder since the loss of him. I have many playful suitors. They mean nothing. I will let my heart feel nothing. It is my part, I know, to play this game but I am not required to feel, and to be sure there’s no one who will care. I’m a pretty ornament, some property to buy and sell. So I’ll not give my heart to any one.
Last night at supper hour there was
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