Brief Gaudy Hour Read online

  The names and personages represented by this chart serve only to clarify relationships between the characters in this book. Ordering of names does not represent birth order, and in some cases may provide incomplete birth and death records. The purpose of this chart is to enhance the story presented on the pages that follow.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1949, 2008 by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Bridgeman Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Originally published in 1949 by Macdonald & Co., London.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Barnes, Margaret Campbell.

  Brief gaudy hour : a novel of Anne Boleyn / Margaret Campbell Barnes.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4022-1175-1 (trade pbk.)

  1. Anne Boleyn, Queen, consort of Henry VIII, King of England, 1507–1536—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Henry VIII, 1509–1547—Fiction. 3. Henry VIII, King of England, 1491–1547—Fiction. 4. Queens—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6003.A72B75 2008

  823.’91--dc22

  2007037523

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  House of Boleyn, House of Howard

  House of Tudor

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To

  MY HUSBAND

  “Verily,

  I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born,

  And range with humble livers in content,

  Than to be perk’d up in a glist’ring grief

  And wear a golden sorrow.”

  Anne Bullen in Act II, Scene III, of Shakespeare’s King Henry the Eighth

  Author’s Note

  In Tudor times so many parents called their children after royal personages that it gave rise to a confusing repetition of such names as Henry and Mary. In order to avoid this, it has seemed advisable to alter the Christian names of one or two minor characters in this book.

  Wellow, Isle of Wight,

  1947–48

  Chapter One

  Nan! Nan! Come in and be fitted for your new dresses to go to Court!” “Nan! Come and answer your father’s letter.”

  “Nan, child, don’t stand toute égarée in the garden. Your turn has come.”

  Simonette’s sharp French voice shrilled first from one open casement and then from another as she bustled through the Castle rooms stirring up waves of preparation for the launching of her pupil on the chancy sea of life. Simonette, in the Boleyns’ service, was the perfect governess. For her, this day, years of exasperation and devotion were terminated in triumph. Tears might come after. But here was the proud moment in which to produce the young thing she had made.

  Yet the girl to whom she called still lingered on the terrace watching the giddy flight of butterflies above the drowsing knott garden. For her, as for them, the gaudy hour of life was being born. Bright as their painted wings, heady as the hot perfume of the flowers. Full of golden promise, and transient as the summer day.

  All that was spirited in Anne Boleyn thrilled to the prospect of the brilliant future; but, being intelligent and sensitive beyond her years, she spared an ungrasping moment for a savouring of the past. The happy, innocent past—so wisely filled with graceful pursuits and the joy of burgeoning appreciations. Before the flurry of dressmakers and the glitter of courts obsessed her, she must look her fill upon this Kentish garden, stamping the impress of its happy recollections upon her heart. The lovely lawns where she had been wont to play with her brother and sister, the stately trees beneath which her father walked, the yew arbours cunningly devised for dalliance where her cousin, Thomas Wyatt, read aloud his poems and made love to her.

  To Anne the gardens of Hever meant more than all the stately ancestral pleasances of Blickling Hall, or her late mother’s home at Rochford. They would be as a salve when she went forth into the unknown, and something beautiful to come back to. She would sit sometimes and remember them when she was in France.

  For Anne was fiercely sure now that she would go to France.

  In his letter from London, her father did not actually promise it. He merely summoned her to Court, saying that Queen Katherine would be graciously pleased to receive her. But when he was last home he had hinted that he was striving for this honour to be granted her—the honour of being chosen to go to Paris in the train of the King’s sister, who was betrothed to Louis the Twelfth. It seemed an incredible thing to happen when one was barely eighteen. But Sir Thomas Boleyn was Henry Tudor’s ambassador to the French Court, and ambitious for his children. And, of them all, Anne had his heart.

  Goaded by the urgency of her governess’s voice, Anne turned at last. Her dark eyes were starry with excitement, and her right hand clutched the Ambassador’s parchment to her bosom. But her left hand lay quietly hidden in the green folds of her gown.

  As she went up the wide steps and through the great hall, the older servants smiled at her indulgently. Already there was a great carrying hither and thither of chests and coffers for her journey. George Boleyn, her brother, brushing aside a welter of hounds, caught her boyishly by the shoulders and hugged her.
“Your turn at last!” he exulted, just as Simonette had done. “And I am to take you to London.”

  That was the keystone to her happiness. At present there would be no pain of parting from her youthful circle, no loneliness to mar her good fortune. Of all creatures in the world, this brother, but a few years older than herself, was dearest. His was the laughter, the crazy gaiety that had leavened the cultured companionship of their mutual friends. They would all be there; not in the gardens at Hever, but at Greenwich, Windsor, or Westminster. For a little while longer they would be together—with their swift wit, their shared passion for music, their versifying, their dancing, and their endless discussions. Thomas Wyatt and George and their friends who already had places about the King, Wyatt’s sister Margaret, and her own sister Mary, who was more beautiful, if a little more stolid, than the rest.

  “Why should Mary, who is younger, have gone first?” demanded George, following the trend of her unspoken thought.

  Anne shrugged. She knew that the same resentment had been smouldering in her governess’s breast during these last few months of quiet preparation. But now, today, it mattered nothing. “Mary went first,” she said. “But I may go farther.”

  “You mean with the royal bride to France?”

  To save her face in case of any future contretemps, Anne laughed a gay denial of her hopes. “Oh, I have been promised nothing!” she temporized.

  The glances of brother and sister met and held with that intimate understanding which was between them. Then the young man’s eyes shifted and were momentarily hooded. “Mary has blossomed out. She has been noticed at Court,” he remarked uneasily.

  But Anne’s thoughts were centred on her own destiny. She took little heed of his unwonted gravity. “It is scarcely surprising. Our mother was accounted one of the loveliest women present when the Queen first came from Aragon,” she reminded him lightly, a little enviously perhaps. For although Anne was by far the more accomplished of the Ambassador’s two daughters, Mary was the acknowledged beauty.

  Back in the room where she worked at her books, Anne unrolled the letter which had so suddenly changed her quiet life. “May I answer it myself, Simonette?” she asked gravely of her waiting governess.

  “Bien sûr, ma chère.”

  “In French or English?”

  “They say that the Princess Mary, although but a child, writes equally well in either, as well as in Spanish. The Tudors like their women to be educated. And you know which his Excellency, your father, would prefer.”

  Anne assimilated the hint that, with an eye to advancement, her letter might be shown in higher circles. “And you think my French is good enough?” she enquired anxiously.

  The tall, shrewd woman standing by the writing desk smiled with the assurance of one whose task has been conscientiously performed. “I have every confidence in your ability, Nan. And who knows but what one day you may have to write to yet more important people?”

  With a deft movement of her right hand Anne jerked the blank waiting parchment towards her and took up a quill. Seated with the sunshine illuminating her dutifully bent head, she poured out her filial gratitude, understanding fully for the first time why Sir Thomas and Simonette had made her work so hard at music and at languages. In her letter she expressed eager appreciation of the promised privilege of conversing with so great a queen as Katherine of Aragon. And, mindful of the difficulties and temptations that bestrew a young girl’s path in such exalted places, she made a spontaneous promise to her father. “I am resolved to lead as holy a life as you may please to desire of me,” she wrote. “Indeed, my love for you is founded on so firm a basis it can never be impaired.”

  It never occurred to her to question what he might desire of her nor what vast forces might shake the basis of that love, and little did she realize, as her quill moved on, the solace her naïve promise would be to an affectionate man caught in the net of his own worldly ambitions. A man who already knew parental qualms for his younger daughter.

  When the letter was sealed and dispatched, Anne delivered herself up to the chattering seamstresses. Half-basted dresses had already been cut from materials far finer than any she had previously possessed. Brocades and velvets had been reverently lifted from the dower chests of her Howard ancestors, and refashioned to the full, flamboyant mode. Anne thought they made her look taller and her waist yet more slender. They seemed to lend her a sombre dignity, accentuating the wealth of her raven hair, the delicate high moulding of her cheekbones, and the pallor of her skin. But she herself knew that once she began to talk and laugh with people, something would come to life in her, lending animation to the pale oval of her face; and the thing which Thomas Wyatt called witchery would take possession of her slanting, almond-shaped eyes.

  The seamstresses went on working by candlelight, but when Anne became weary, Simonette sent her to bed. And when her tiring maid had turned down the covers and pulled the embroidered shift from over her head, Anne knew that like that—with the alabaster of her body half hidden in the warm night of her hair—she was lovelier than she would ever be in any dress.

  Only now there was nowhere to hide her left hand.

  Anne looked down at it, as she always did, with reluctance. Upon her little finger grew a second nail, almost a second finger, an abnormality from birth. Something of which she was ever conscious.

  And the consciousness was like a secret sting, often goading her sensitiveness to sharpness and ill-humour, sometimes to a kind of competitive zeal. It seemed to set her apart from other girls. So that always she must excel in everything in order to outweigh this one imperfection.

  She could not bear people to speak of it. Here at home everybody knew and understood. But now that she was going out into the world she must learn to be clever about it. She must not let her new friends twit her. With so many things that she could do well, she must not let it spoil her chances of preferment. Or of love.

  Anne paused to study the reflection of her nude body in a long metal mirror. Thank God, it was exquisite enough for the most exacting lover. She was glad that her parents, through some freakish caution or ambition, had omitted to arrange a betrothal for her in infancy. Unlike her sister and her girl friends, she was still free. Free to choose her own lover.

  She clambered lightly into her four-poster and pulled the covers up to her little, pointed chin. Absently, she bade the fresh cheeked country wench good night and watched her snuff the candles. But by the pale glimmer of the peeping moon the long dreams of youth went on. She would meet this lover in France perhaps. Meet him suddenly, as like as not. One day she would rise and dress and go out, the same as on any other day; and then suddenly she would see him coming towards her, and she would know. He would be tall, of course, and fair like George. Or dark, perhaps, like Thomas Wyatt? Never, she felt, could he be as charming as Thomas or as dear as George; but he must be stronger, more masterful than either. A soldier perhaps. The kind of man who wouldn’t stop to write a sonnet to one’s eyes, but who would sweep one into compelling arms and stop all protests with a kiss. She was certain about that. But his colouring? In God’s name, should he be dark or fair?

  The door opened and Anne’s stepmother came into the quiet room, carrying a candle. A domestic figure, dispelling romantic dreams. And quite suddenly Anne realized that in a day or two she would be leaving all the dear familiar things of home.

  Jocunda Boleyn was not blue-blooded like Anne’s mother. She never went to Court. She was just a country gentlewoman of Norfolk whom Sir Thomas had married, as widowers left with growing children will. She was incapable of sparkling or saying witty things or of looking arrestingly handsome like the rest of them. But it was Jocunda who, for all the family, made Hever home.

  She put down her candle and came and sat on the edge of the bed, and Anne threw both arms about her. “God save me, I do not really want to go! I had forgotten that you will not be coming too!” she stam
mered, shaken by unexpected sobs.

  “Hush, poppet! It’s only that you are tired out with all the day’s fuss.” Jocunda held the immature body to her comfortable, childless breast. “Why, you, of all of them, would eat your heart out here! You are just the kind of wench to whom wonderful things will happen. Imagine, going to attend the Queen!” The mistress of Hever appeared to be searching a little helplessly for some panacea for her own approaching loneliness. “She is a God-fearing woman, our Queen.”

  Anne sat up, still sniffling forlornly.

  “Everyone will like your singing, and your father will make a brilliant match for you,” prophesied Jocunda. “Only sometimes I cannot forebear from wishing—”

  “You wish I would marry Thomas Wyatt, don’t you, you softhearted creature?” smiled Anne, wiping away her tears with both hands; for only before this one woman, who had loved her tenderly since childhood, would she use her left hand naturally and without embarrassment.

  “Were you to travel the whole world you would not find a man of more beautiful character,” submitted Jocunda.

  “I know.”

  “And you would settle down at Allington a few miles away, and I should have no need to lose you.”

  “But I am not in love with Thomas,” objected Anne. “The dear Lord knows I should be sore put to it to do without him, Madame; but I do not want to marry him.”

  “Are you sure, Nan?”

  “Quite sure.”

  Jocunda regarded her speculatively. Somehow she had more qualms about letting this fledgling go than about either of the other two. “You are so young, and somehow I have the feeling that marriage with a man like that would give your whole future security.”

  “If there be one thing of which I am sure it is that I do not want a dull security,” said Anne, in that clipped, decisive way of hers. “Verses and gallant speeches make a lovely background, like harmonious tapestries, but they are not the viands of a feast. And sometimes I grow tired of being treated as if I were a breakable Madonna. I want something more—more exciting than that. Something harder to attain, like the way I have worked for Simonette. Something with a spice of danger even.” The beating of warm blood was animating Anne’s face. In the shifting candlelight her eyes looked almost green, and she laughed through thick lashes from the corners of their narrowed lids—a fascinating, hussy’s trick which her stepmother had always deplored. “When I love a man, my sweet, I shall love him with every pulse in my body,” she declared. “Through adversity, sin, or danger.”