Secrets of the Tudor Court by D. L. Bogdan

made it another gift to Anne.
    I wonder fleetingly how many other bold clerics might lose their homes to Henry and his bride before his reign is out, then chastise myself for the treasonous thought.
    At last the king approaches me, taking the robes and coronet. I am relieved to hand them off. He meets my eyes with his own glittering blue gaze and offers a bright smile. I smile back. Perhaps that is his way of telling me I did a good job and he is proud of me.
    He wraps the robes about my lady’s shoulders and, with the utmost loving care, places the coronet atop her dark head, creating her Marquess of Pembroke.
    She stands beside her intended, glowing with pride and triumph. The air thrills with their happiness. The world seems full of hope and endless possibilities.

France
     
    W hen I think that Anne cannot be defeated and is at last allowed a moment of quiet to revel in her joy, something spoils it, causing her to be up in arms all over again. The very next day we are informed that the queen of France will not come to Calais or Boulogne to meet my lady. This is a blatant demonstration of the French queen’s disapproval of the match and the king’s break from the Church of Rome.
    Anne breaks down in a moment of fury and calls the queen as many derogatory names as she can think of on short notice, but the much-favored Master Cromwell, ever calm, reassures her that King François’s sister, the queen of Navarre, will attend her instead, which does something to mollify Anne. Now she will at least be able to meet King François and make an impression upon him as future queen of England.
    Later Anne decides that, though she is satisfied with the jewels she has planned for her trip, she would like to have in her possession Queen Catherine’s jewels as well.
    I am saddened at this. I do not understand why she would want another woman’s jewels. But then she wanted another woman’s husband, so I suppose the jewels are the least of it now. Such uncharitable thoughts do not become me, I think, and vow to be more compassionate toward my lady, whom I imagine is under the highest level of anxiety.
    When the king tells her my father will be sent to fetch the jewels from Catherine, Anne’s wild black eyes lose their glint of madness. She calms and, exhausted, sinks onto her chaise, demanding one of us to fan her. She is trembling and smiling, but tears fill her eyes.
    I am starting to think it is not so great a thing to be Anne Boleyn.
     
     
    It pains me to admit that the days my father is up north visiting the queen—I mean, the princess dowager—are my most peaceful. I pack my things for our trip to France. I break from the norm and write some frivolous verse, which I share with some of my friends who are writing their own. We decide we will make a little compilation of our work. I vow not to write anything in “O Happy Dames” for Cedric Dane. I will not write a thing for him ever. Indeed, I hope not to have any future run-ins with the presumptuous lad again.
    My peace is short-lived, for Norfolk returns, somber and unsuccessful in his attempt. Her Highness said she would not relinquish her jewels without a direct order from King Henry.
    “No matter what I told her, she would not hear,” he sighs. “Strange. Was a time not too long past when she heeded my advice. Yet she clings to these ideals that are foolish and false. She lives in another time, or a time that never existed at all. Damn romantic fool.” His face twists in a sort of agony. Is it the agony Cedric described to me that day—the agony a lover feels? “If she’d give in, her life and that of her daughter would be so much easier. Doesn’t she want peace? She tries to avoid bloodshed, yet by remaining so obstinate she will cause it just the same,” Norfolk grumbles that evening as I sit before him, giving an update.
    “She loves him,” I venture.
    He flinches. “It is a matter of pride for the both of them. Love doesn’t enter into it at all. It is