“No.” I refused to deceive myself any longer. “I want to be there. I want to dance and sing and play in the masques. I want to know what is going on in the world… and not just to hear it secondhand when a visitor happens to call. I want to have my revenge on the mighty Cardinal.”
George laughed out loud. “My dear Anne, how will you bring that about?”
“I don't know.”
“Nor would anyone else. He stands high in the King's favor. I'll tell you this: Henry is a Tudor, and Tudors are not sure of their crowns. It's understandable. Henry cannot forget that his father came by his most fortuitously. If the battle of Bosworth had gone differently, as it so well might…If Stanley hadn't turned traitor…Oh, that would have been another story. The crown sat rather unsteadily on this King's father's head and he never forgets it. Wolsey is one of those who is helping to hold his steady.”
“I know it is foolish. But I do hate the man.”
“You blame him for what happened with Percy.”
“He berated him in a most unseemly manner before so many. And what did he call me? ‘A foolish girl.’ I should like to show him that I am not that. I should like to make him suffer as he did me and my poor Henry.”
“It's over and done with, Anne. Nothing will change it. Percy quickly succumbed to family pressure and married Shrewsbury's daughter. I have heard that it is a most unhappy marriage.”
I should have felt some satisfaction at that, but I did not. I was surprised by my feelings for Henry Percy. They had had something motherly in them. I had always wanted to protect him; and although I could not have borne him to be happy with Mary Talbot, at the same time I did not want him to be miserable.
“Such a marriage would be,” I said.
“He should have had more spirit.”
“I think he was heartbroken…as I was.”
“My poor Anne! But you were not meant to pine away with a broken heart. I should like to see you at Court. You'd outshine them all.”
After talking with George, I began to think I should like that too.
George could not stay indefinitely. He had his duties in Norfolk. And when he went away, I was desolate.
And then, one day when I rode over to Allington, Thomas Wyatt was there. When he saw me, his eyes lit up with pleasure. He took both my hands in his and kissed me on the cheek.
“Anne…it is wonderful to see you,” he said.
“That is how I feel about seeing you.”
“I thought you might have gone back to Court.”
“Oh no. I am banished forever. I am in disgrace.”
“I heard the story. What a fool Percy was! He should have run away with you.”
“His father came, you know. He was sent for by the King. They were all against us.”
“I can't be too sad about it. I should hate anything that took you away from Hever.”
“Are you staying at Allington long?”
“Only for a while.”
“Then I shall see you now and then.”
“Often, I hope.”
And that was how it was. Every day he was at Hever or I was at Allington. The days passed quickly in such company. He was one of the most handsome men I ever knew. Nature had given Thomas Wyatt almost everything—except perhaps discretion; he never had much of that. He was reckless always. I think he especially enjoyed courting danger. He was tall and excelled in athletic accomplishments; a skillful rider, he shone at the jousts, and that had brought him to the King's notice; he could dance with grace and had a good singing voice; not many were so gifted. But Thomas's chief asset was his scholarship: he could speak several languages fluently; he was a recognized poet; it was rare that such gifts were mingled so that he could be as completely at home in the tiltyard as he was in the most intellectual company. His expression was lively, and his eyes were clear and blue; his blond hair curled about his head; he had a finely chiseled nose and his mouth was sensitive. He had a rare distinction. He was, in all respects, a man who could not fail to charm and attract attention.
The King had soon drawn him into his intimate circle of friends. He liked to hear Thomas's poetry. He considered himself a poet of no small merit, and I was sure his efforts received more acclaim than those of Thomas. This would amuse Thomas but perhaps cause a little uneasiness in the King's mind, for he was—as I was to discover later—by no means of a simple nature. One part of him would know that Thomas was the greater poet, but another part was too vain and childish to admit it. These two sides of his nature were in constant conflict with each other. If he had been a little less intellectual or a little more vain, he would have been more easily understood, and consequently those about him, who depended on his whims, would have been so much more secure.
At this time I knew none of this. I was forgetting that scene in the gardens at Hever and had long told myself that the King could not really have borne resentment toward me because of it, for if he had wished to punish me for my insolence he could have found some means of doing so at the time. No, I assured myself, the breakup of my betrothal had been due to the Cardinal's spite. He was the one whom I must blame.
And now there was Thomas Wyatt, that delightful companion to brighten my days by falling in love with me.
He told me frankly of his feelings for his wife. There was no love lost between them. It had been an arranged marriage and she cared no more for him than he did for her.
Somehow that lulled my conscience.
Often I thought: If Thomas had not married, I might have married him. How different my life would have been if that had been possible! I was not in love with him, but he was the most pleasant companion I knew, and no one—not even George—had helped to soothe my wounds as he had.
He could not stay at Allington forever, for he had duties at Court. The King, impressed by his performance in the tiltyard, had made him Esquire of the Body, and now he had another post: Clerk of the King's Jewels.
“You see I have pleased His Grace,” explained Thomas. “I think it is mostly through my verses and the masques I have arranged at Court. The King has complimented me on them. He will be missing me, I dareswear.”
“So you must go back,” I said dolefully.
“I have to tear myself away, Anne. I would you were there. You would open the eyes of some. There would be no one to match you… nor ever could be in my eyes.”
He looked at me with a burning passion, and I knew he longed to be my lover, but much as I enjoyed his desire for me, I would never succumb to it. I was not one to be carried away, even by this handsome poet.
He used to read his poetry to me; some of it spoke of love and those sentiments were directed toward me. I basked in his admiration. It soothed me. But my temperament was as different from my sister Mary's as it could be. She was as ready as her lovers to reach the climax of such encounters; I was determined they should never arrive.
I suppose I was sexually cold. I had not felt so with Henry Percy; but even with him there could have been no consummation of our love until after marriage. Mary's adventures had had a marked effect on me, and I should never forget the humiliation of her banishment from the French Court.
So I basked in the love of charming Thomas Wyatt with the avowed determination never to give way to his pleas. But those days helped me. I began to feel there was a life other than one of brooding sorrow and loneliness at Hever.
My stepmother was delighted to see the change in me, but at the same time she was a little fearful. She was aware—as all must be—of Thomas's almost irresistible charm, and she knew, of course, how I had suffered. I felt very tender toward her; her disinterested love for me amazed me for it was something I had not had from my natural parents, and it seemed strange that it should come from a stepmother.