tinged with hatred. But what did Anne care for her brother’s foolish wife! Poor George! she thought. Better to be alone than linked with such a one. It could be good to be alone, to feel so many eyes upon her, watching, admiring, desiring; to feel that power over these watching men which their need of her must give her.
About her, at the banquet, the laughter was louder, the fun more riotous. The King would join the group which surrounded her, because he liked to be with gay young people; and all the time his eyes burned to contemplate her who was the center of this laughing group.
The Queen sat, pale and almost ugly. She was a sad and frightened woman who could not help thinking continually of the suggested divorce; and this feast in itself was a humiliation to her, since she, a Spaniard, could find little joy in friendship with the French!
The King’s distaste for his Queen was apparent; and those courtiers who were young and loved gaiety, scarcely paid her the homage due to her; they preferred to gather round Anne Boleyn, because to be there was to be near the King, joining in his fun and laughter.
Now, from his place at the head of the table, the King was watching Wyatt. Wine had made the poet over-bold and he would not move from Anne’s side though he was fully aware of Henry’s watching eyes. There was hardly anyone at the table who was ignorant of the King’s passion, and there was an atmosphere of tension in the hall, while everyone waited for the King to act.
Then the King spoke. There was a song he wished the company to hear. It was of his own composing. All assumed great eagerness to hear the song.
The musicians were called. With them came one of the finest singers in the court. There was a moment’s complete silence, for no one dared move while the King’s song was about to be sung. The King sat forward and his eyes never left Anne’s face until the song was finished and the applause broke out.
There could be no doubt of the meaning of these arrogant words; there could be no doubt for whom they were written. Anne was freshly aware of the splendor of this palace of Greenwich, of the power it represented. The words kept ringing in her ears. He was telling her that he was weary of waiting; princes, such as he was, did not wait over-long.
This evening had lost its joy for her now; she was afraid. Wyatt had heard those words and realized their implication; George had heard them, and his eyes smiled into hers reassuringly. She wanted to run to her brother, she wanted to say: “Let us go home; let us go back to being children. I am afraid of the glitter of this court. His eyes watch me now. Brother, help me! Take me home!” George knew her thoughts. She saw the reckless tilt of his head, and imitated it, feeling better, returning his smile. George was reassuring. “Never fear, Anne!” he seemed to convey. “We are the Boleyns!”
The company was applauding. Great poetry, was the verdict. Anne looked to him who, some said, was the literary genius of the court, Sir Thomas More; his
The King’s song was the prelude of the evening’s entertainment, and Anne with her friends would have a big part in this. She thrust aside her fears; she played that night with a fervor she had rarely expressed before in any of these masquerades and plays which the quartet contrived. Into her fear of the King there crept an element which she could not have defined. What was it? The desire to make him admire her more? The company were over- courteous to her; even her old enemy, Wolsey, whom she had never ceased to hate, had a very friendly smile! The King’s favorites were to be favored by all, and when you had known yourself to be slighted on account of your humble birth...when such a man as Wolsey had humiliated you...yes, there was pleasure mingling with the fear of this night.
She was like a brilliant flame in her scarlet and gold. All eyes were upon her. For months to come they would talk of this night, on which Anne had been the moon to all these pale stars.
The evening was to end with a dance, and in this each gentleman would choose his partner. The King should take the Queen’s hand and lead the dance, whilst the others fell in behind them. The Queen sat heavy in her chair, brooding and disconsolate. The King did not give her a look. There was a moment of breathless silence while he strode over to Anne Boleyn, and thus, choosing her, made public his preference.
His hand held hers firmly; his was warm and strong; she felt he would crush her fingers.
They danced. His eyes burned bright as the jewels on his clothes. Different this from the passion of Wyatt; fiercer, prouder, not sad but angry passion.
He would have speech with her away from these people, he said. She replied that she feared the Queen’s disapproval should she leave the ballroom.
He said: “Do you not fear mine if you stay!”
“Sir,” she said, “the Queen is my mistress.”
“And a hard one, eh?”
“A very kind one, Sir, and one whose displeasure I should not care to incur.”
He said angrily: “Mistress, you try our patience sorely. Did you like our song?”
“It rhymed well,” she said, for now she sat with him she could see that his anger was not to be feared; he would not hurt her, since mingling with his passion there was a tenderness, and this tenderness, which she observed, while it subdued her fear, filled her with a strange and exalted feeling.
“What mean you?” he cried, and he leaned closer, and though he would know himself to be observed he could not keep away.
“Your Majesty’s rhyme I liked well; the sentiments expressed, not so well.”
“Enough of this folly!” he said. “You know I love you well.”
