Anne Boleyn: A Novel by Evelyn Anthony Read Free Book Online

way for the third figure in the masque, undecided because she didn’t move like Anne. A look assured him that Water, dressed from head to foot in green and silver, with a silver triton in her hand, was too big-boned and half a head too short. Catherine leaned toward him to ask if he were pleased with the costumes, and he nodded impatiently.
    Then, from the farthest part of the hall the last troupe of ladies were coming, four attendants dressed in yellows and orange, with Fire in vivid scarlet. He knew her at once, in spite of the mask which covered her face; there was a general hum of comment as she came nearer, and he heard Catherine draw in her breath. There was no fear of his mistaking her and dancing in ignorance with anyone else, because she had let down her magnificent hair and it hung to her knees.
    The Cardinal had turned to watch, his attention called to the scene by one of his secretaries, and from the curtsying figure in the blazing dress, his eyes moved quickly to the King. Henry was on the edge of his chair, leaning forward, and there was a look on his face that made Wolsey ask sharply who the woman was.
    “The Queen’s maid, Boleyn,” his secretary answered. “Look at her hair; no one else would have dared.”
    “A whore’s trick,” the Cardinal said slowly. Then he shrugged slightly and quieted his fear. The King would tire. He had once said to Wolsey that women were like dishes; all had different flavors and only a fool contented himself with the taste of one.
    The masquers danced a ballet, specially composed by the Master of the King’s Musick, and it was spoiled for Henry because Anne’s part ended early, as Fire was extinguished by Water in the course of the mime. She stood at the side, and he could see her laughing and flirting with a little court of men; his eyes almost closed with rage when he saw Wyatt among them, pushing close to her. The length of the ballet seemed interminable as he sat there, unable to leave his chair and scatter her admirers by his presence. At the end he applauded loudly and briefly and stood up; the masque was over and the general dancing began. No one could begin until the King chose a partner and led them out. Catherine had risen and stood beside Henry, waiting to take his arm in accordance with custom, but he turned suddenly to her and bowed.
    “His Grace the Duke of Norfolk shall have the honor, Madame.” The next moment Norfolk was standing before her, offering his arm, and the King had left the dais and was hurrying to Anne.
    “I’m overwhelmed, Madame,” Norfolk said. He was a tall, ugly man with a savage squint, and Catherine had never felt at ease with him. He was one of that fierce breed of the old English nobility, whose struggles for power had sent many of them to the block. He was also the uncle of Anne Boleyn.
    The King and Anne were dancing, and he kept up the required pretense of not knowing her identity. She moved with the grace and lightness of the deer he hunted, turning, curtsying and leaping in the difficult figures of the sarabande. The King, an expert himself, excelled in dancing as he did in sport and he delighted in a partner whose skill complimented his own.
    At the end he led her to a corner, where wine and sweetmeats were served from a long table; those standing near moved to a discreet distance so that they could speak without being overheard.
    He swallowed a glass of wine and refilled it.
    “Now, Mistress, I shall guess who hides under that mask,” he said playfully.
    She smiled at him. “Well, Sire, who am I?”
    He hesitated and then slapped his side.
    “Donna Maria de Feria Gonzalez!” he declared, naming the most gaunt and gloomy of Catherine’s Spanish ladies.
    Anne laughed. “No, Sire, and I’m not Friar Pedro, either!” she retorted, naming the Queen’s Confessor.
    “I know there’s no monk under your skirts, Mistress Anne,” he said mockingly. “I pierced that disguise when you first entered.”
    “I’d prayed