The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn by Robin Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page A

life.
    The trunk, scented with lavender, was packed with neady folded linen and garments, some of them hers, some of them her brother Edward’s, some of them her father’s, which she kept as mementos — all that was left of her family. Pulling aside an embroidered tunic and a pair of leather hawking gloves, Elizabeth had found the small wooden trinket box she sought, the painted and gilt Bible scene on its lid long since worn away. Seeing the box released a flood of childhood memories, disjointed images from the nursery, from Hatfield Hall — some warm, some painful, all as much a part of her as her next breath.
    The lid removed, all inside was immediately visible, a worthless jumble of paste jewelry, the vaguely heart-shaped stone a romantic young Robin had given her, an enameled thimble for a tiny finger, a mouse’s skull, a faded bluejay feather. And her mother’s handkerchief.
    Elizabeth disentangled the square of fine linen from the other contents and held it in her hands. It was stained yellow with age and the lace edging was ragged in places, but the embroidered
H
and
A
, her parents’ initials, were yet lovingly entwined for eternity.
    Now the Queen sat with the diary resting in her lap, the handkerchief a bookmark, and opened the book to the third entry. She squinted at the script on the page. She would have to read slowly, for her vision was weak and such strain readily brought on the headaches that caused her much misery. With chances for privacy so scant, she knew that reading the diary would take some time. But Elizabeth minded not at all. She would simply savor it like a rich wine, for Anne’s story, she felt, must be a piece of the riddle that was her destiny as a woman — and a queen. She began to read.
    4 April 1522
    Diary,
    Such a Sunday it has been! Chapel done, an early summons from my Father brought me to the countinghouse where he was near finished with the feast plans for the Cardinal’s visit. I approached him where he sat behind the green baize table in a tete a tete with the Cofferer, an ugly man who from the corner of his lecherous eye surveyed me foot to head. I wished to go, for even then the Cardinal’s barge approached, but I was forced to stay, quiet and obedient till time permitted a daughters audience with her master.
    He finally spoke to say that Sir Piers Butler had been made Lord Deputy of Ireland and I should make haste to my betrothed to add congratulations on his fathers appointment. At mention of James Butler and his kin I felt my face go hard, but quick replaced it with pleasant smile. I do fear his warlord father known to murder relatives, and loathe the wimpish ass of a son who likes me not much better than I like him. Yet James, when haggling and dowry are concluded by Father and King and Cardinal, is meant to be my lawful husband. You see my Father’s Father owns vast Irish estates, but our cousin that vile Piers Butler has prevented we Boleyns from ever occupying those lands. My marriage then to James, ‘tis thought, will end old disputes resolving matters, bringing peace to all. I shall travel to wild Irish lands to reign among the savage barefoot peasants there as Lady Butler. So they say I shall. So they say.
    Dismissed and free at last I rushed away and stopped before the great bay window seeing Cardinal Wolsey’s gilt and painted barge gliding thro the marshy river edge to meet the palace landing stage. My heart leapt and I wondered should I go and calm myself, sit demurely within the chamber of the Queen, or should I fly cross the palace lawn to greet the one I love?
    Then thro window glass I saw a flash of scarlet taffeta and then a great and ponderous form. Wolsey, red of hat and glove and gown, magnificent in his obesity preceded by his yeomen bearing all his Cardinal’s stuff— silver crosses, pillar, hat, Great Seal of England. From out the palace doors with pomp and circumstance marched King’s officials wreathed in golden chains whose tall white