I look around to see the blank horror on Anne’s mother’s face.
‘Betters,’ I repeat in a whisper.
Anne spits a venomous reply; but the king raises his voice and goes on: ‘You should know...’ He is drunk, but his speech is clear; they will hear every word even at the very back. ‘You should know that it is in my power to humble you again, in a moment – in a moment! Just as I have raised you.’
She does not meet his bulging-eyed stare. She looks straight ahead, white-faced. The king gives a harsh, wild laugh and beckons his men friends to follow him, and they take off past the litter at a gallop back to the palace. The beautiful French mules harnessed to the litter shift restlessly and rock Anne in her seat.
George tips his head to me to stay with Anne as he puts his heels on his horse and thunders after the king. Their mother, Elizabeth Boleyn, comes up on the other side of the litter but says nothing. We ride back to the palace in silence, the dust from the king’s gallop settling on the silver white curtains.
Anne gets out as soon as the litter halts before the wide front doors, and she and her mother go inside while I am dismounting from my horse. Slowly, I follow them to the queen’s rooms, the ladies-in-waiting ahead of me. For a moment, I hesitate, remembering all the times I have gone through this door to hear someone reading from the Bible or the buzz of laughing conversation and Queen Katherine presiding over a peaceful busy room. Now, I walk into a frosty privy chamber, the ladies sulking after a scold.
Elizabeth Somerset nods her head towards the bedchamber. ‘You’re to go in. We’re all in disgrace. I don’t know why. It’s not as if it’s our fault!’
In the bedchamber, George is leaning on the mantelpiece; the fire is out. Anne’s mother has made her escape to her own rooms through the king’s door. Anne is in the window seat, still in her red-velvet riding dress, glaring down into the garden below.
I close the door and wait.
‘You saw what he did,’ she says tightly. ‘You heard him rage at me.’
‘You’ll make up,’ I say. ‘You always rage and make up.’
‘We will. But that’s the last toast he’ll drink to her.’
I glance at George; his beautiful face is stony, sculpted like the limestone fireplace.
‘Tell Agnes to go,’ Anne orders. ‘Tell her that she can’t stay at court.’
I hesitate. ‘Better not today,’ I say. ‘Not after that scene. Better to leave it, when she can leave quietly?’
‘No,’ George says decisively. ‘As an example for others. You can bed the king but not advise him. You don’t put words in his mouth. We do that: only us. She’s to leave – not because she’s his flirt but because she’s told him that Katherine of Aragon was a better woman than Anne. Because he said that Anne should put up with what had been done to her betters.’
Anne spits an oath and looks out of the window.
‘The duke, our uncle, wants her gone,’ I confirm.
‘So, what are you waiting for?’ George asks me with forced cheer. ‘Go to it! Cast off, my falcon!’
‘It’s my command,’ Anne rules.
IWALK INTO THEsullen privy chamber. ‘Where’s Agnes?’ I ask one of the maids-of-honour.
‘Changing her dress,’ she says. ‘The king has sent her some beautiful sleeves. They were on her bed when she came in.’ She simpers. ‘With a poem! He’s written her a love song!’
I enter the bedroom that Agnes shares with the other maids-of-honour without knocking. Three girls, cooing over a handwritten page, drop it as they see me, and whisk out of the door. Agnes stands by her bed with the new sleeves spread before her. I pick them up and fold them over my arm; she makes a tiny movement as if to snatch them back, and then she holds herself still.
‘I warned you,’ I say kindly, for she looks like a frightened child, standing by her bed. ‘I warned you, but you have continued to behave—’
‘The king!’ she whispers.
‘The king’s behaviour is beyond comment. He is the king. You serve the queen, and it is her good opinion you should be seeking. You have lost that. So, you have lost your place. You should write to your parents to take you from court at once.’
‘The Marquess of Exeter assured my father and mother that I should have a place in the queen’s rooms.’
Fool that she is: she has revealed her patron is Henry Courtenay Marquess of Exeter, Gertrude’s husband, of the old royal family, leader of the Spanish party. A novice spy, she has confirmed that they brought her to court and placed her into the queen’s rooms in the hopes of stealing the king from Anne. They must be delighted with her progress. The king has never spoken to Anne like this before, never told her to endure as her betters had done: he never thought that there was anyone better than Anne! This is not a lovers’ tiff; it is a masterstroke against us. The Poles, the Courtenays, all the royal cousins and kin know that the king has to be surrounded by the best – the best jousters, the best dancers, the best poets, the most beautiful women. A second son himself, he cannot toleratesecond place in anything. They know this, they have known him from childhood. Agnes, their mouth to his ear, has suggested Anne is second best. With them writing her lines she is a real danger to us. She has to go.
‘That was kind of the Marquess of Exeter; but the queen has a right to choose her own household. You are not suitable. So, pack your belongings and leave. Her Grace does not want to see you again.’
She opens her mouth to speak, but she has nothing to say. She hesitates, stammers; she suddenly looks much younger, as if she is about to cry.
