Read Online The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn by Robin Maxwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robin Maxwell
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amongst the rabble at a lower table some old hag whispered to be a witch. When the meal was done, dogs scavenging scraps beneath the groaning board and all the nobles gone to evening’s amusement, I found the woman and begged to bend her ear. She looked at me through clouded eyes whilst her hands still stuffed a pouch with bits of food the dogs had not yet found.
“What d’ye want m’lady?” She smiled, if you would call it smiling, teeth beneath her lips black and rotten, her breath a putrid stench. “A spell, a potion, something magick that will hold your beauty everlasting?”
I gave no answer but instead I put my hand in hers and turned it so the specially long and pointed sleeve did fall away, and she could see the little extra flesh and nail they call a finger.
“Six fingers!” she cried and grasped my hand most greedily. “You must be Mistress Anne Boleyn.” It startled me, I tried to pull away. She held it fast. “You’re famous for this little finger. Aye. They say ‘tis a Devil’s mark.”
“The same as this wen upon my neck,” I whispered and pulled my choker down so she could see the raised brown spot the necklace hid. “What think you, old woman, am I a witch like you?”
She took no notice of the wen, instead stood staring at my hand in some long silence. The waxy smoke of candles stung my eyes. Her fetid breath was too much to bear. More silence, then I cried, “What say you! Tell me quickly, I’ll not stay much longer.”
“Hold, Mistress, I am reckoning, reckoning, how much I can afford to pay for this small finger.” “What, buy the finger!”
“Oooooh yes, Lady, cut it off, ‘twould hardly bleed and ‘twould look so lovely in a jar,” she whined, “alongside unborn bats wing, pregnant toads, the like.”
“Certainly not!” I cried and pulled my hand away.
“Did you not ask?”
“I asked you your opinion on it, on me, not to be some ghoulish surgeon.”
“My opinion,” she placed a bony finger on my cheek, “is that the Lady Anne has powers like a long and yellowed scroll as yet unfurled. And if she choose, she shall make a brilliant and an infamous career.” She shoved a wrinkled hand at me, palm up. I quickly filled it with a coin, then turned from her, caught my breath and took myself away. Brilliant and infamous. Her words rang so loud all day and evening within my head that I needed singing with my sister ladies to drown them out and give me peace.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
20 April 1526
Diary,
Having heard that Thomas Wyatt’s named the Master of the May Day Revels I rode out this day, very fine and warm, upon my favorite chestnut mare to Shooters Hill behind the Greenwich Palace. There, from deep inside the forest were the sounds of sawing work and hammering, so I unhorsed and went on foot down wooded paths to find so strange a scene I scarce believed my eyes.
The rustic home of Robyn Hoode and his band of Merry Men was being built by royal carpenters, a rough banquet table set amongst the alder grove, a full jousting field was cleared with viewing trestles set in branching trees. I found Wyatt sitting, back against a tree with quill in hand, inscribing dialogue for Sherwood Forest’s Masque. His brow was furrowed deep, a frown upon his handsome face.
“Come, Thomas, you should have no trouble thinking up an outlaw’s words. You’re one yourself.”
“Anne, you took me by surprise!” He sprang to his feet but I pushed him back, sitting down beside him on the ground. “I’ve come to ask a favor, sir.”
“You know your wish is always my command, so pray what favor have I granted you?”
“That I’m Maid Marion in this masque. I’ve always liked her character. I think I’d play her well.” He smiled, but his look betrayed a sullen mood. “What is it, Thomas, tell me? You look poorly. Are you ill?”
“No, Anne, not me. What worries have I, sitting in a wooded glen with such a lovely lady scribbling fanciful words for a pagan fertility
“What d’ye want m’lady?” She smiled, if you would call it smiling, teeth beneath her lips black and rotten, her breath a putrid stench. “A spell, a potion, something magick that will hold your beauty everlasting?”
I gave no answer but instead I put my hand in hers and turned it so the specially long and pointed sleeve did fall away, and she could see the little extra flesh and nail they call a finger.
“Six fingers!” she cried and grasped my hand most greedily. “You must be Mistress Anne Boleyn.” It startled me, I tried to pull away. She held it fast. “You’re famous for this little finger. Aye. They say ‘tis a Devil’s mark.”
“The same as this wen upon my neck,” I whispered and pulled my choker down so she could see the raised brown spot the necklace hid. “What think you, old woman, am I a witch like you?”
She took no notice of the wen, instead stood staring at my hand in some long silence. The waxy smoke of candles stung my eyes. Her fetid breath was too much to bear. More silence, then I cried, “What say you! Tell me quickly, I’ll not stay much longer.”
“Hold, Mistress, I am reckoning, reckoning, how much I can afford to pay for this small finger.” “What, buy the finger!”
“Oooooh yes, Lady, cut it off, ‘twould hardly bleed and ‘twould look so lovely in a jar,” she whined, “alongside unborn bats wing, pregnant toads, the like.”
“Certainly not!” I cried and pulled my hand away.
“Did you not ask?”
“I asked you your opinion on it, on me, not to be some ghoulish surgeon.”
“My opinion,” she placed a bony finger on my cheek, “is that the Lady Anne has powers like a long and yellowed scroll as yet unfurled. And if she choose, she shall make a brilliant and an infamous career.” She shoved a wrinkled hand at me, palm up. I quickly filled it with a coin, then turned from her, caught my breath and took myself away. Brilliant and infamous. Her words rang so loud all day and evening within my head that I needed singing with my sister ladies to drown them out and give me peace.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
20 April 1526
Diary,
Having heard that Thomas Wyatt’s named the Master of the May Day Revels I rode out this day, very fine and warm, upon my favorite chestnut mare to Shooters Hill behind the Greenwich Palace. There, from deep inside the forest were the sounds of sawing work and hammering, so I unhorsed and went on foot down wooded paths to find so strange a scene I scarce believed my eyes.
The rustic home of Robyn Hoode and his band of Merry Men was being built by royal carpenters, a rough banquet table set amongst the alder grove, a full jousting field was cleared with viewing trestles set in branching trees. I found Wyatt sitting, back against a tree with quill in hand, inscribing dialogue for Sherwood Forest’s Masque. His brow was furrowed deep, a frown upon his handsome face.
“Come, Thomas, you should have no trouble thinking up an outlaw’s words. You’re one yourself.”
“Anne, you took me by surprise!” He sprang to his feet but I pushed him back, sitting down beside him on the ground. “I’ve come to ask a favor, sir.”
“You know your wish is always my command, so pray what favor have I granted you?”
“That I’m Maid Marion in this masque. I’ve always liked her character. I think I’d play her well.” He smiled, but his look betrayed a sullen mood. “What is it, Thomas, tell me? You look poorly. Are you ill?”
“No, Anne, not me. What worries have I, sitting in a wooded glen with such a lovely lady scribbling fanciful words for a pagan fertility
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