The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn: a Novel by Robin Maxwell

Author:Robin Maxwell [Maxwell, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781628724547
Amazon: B00IHGU0H2
Publisher: Arcade
Published: 2021-01-15T06:00:00+00:00

I HOPE I HAVE FOUND that which Her Majesty desires,” said Lord Steward Francis Knollys above the loud clanking of heavy keys on the chain that hung around his slender waist. Elizabeth’s tall and long-legged cousin topped her by several inches but still had a difficult time keeping up with her brisk pace down Greenwich Castle’s long hall.

“My mother was one of your mother’s ladies near the end of her life,” he said. “It was, she told me, dangerous to show any interest or sympathy for Queen Anne, and most of her things were quietly dispersed or discarded at her death.”

Elizabeth felt a small shiver of pain sweep through her body at the thought of a woman once so beloved by her husband, whose memory had been so quickly and ruthlessly forgotten. It was strange and uncomfortable to be speaking openly of the convicted traitoress, one whose name she had barely uttered in her twenty-five years. But Knollys, a Boleyn relative, seemed happy to be able to talk of her.

“Our friend Thomas Wyatt, God rest his soul, always said his father had been in love with your mother. Wrote verses about her. Made the King jealous. He was loyal to her till the day she died.”

Her mother’s Wyatt, Elizabeth thought to herself, had given Anne not only the diary but the confidence to write in it, and had weathered the King’s wrath many times, to live out his life and die a natural death. His son and namesake, a Protestant patriot, had died but a few years ago under the executioner’s axe after leading the failed rebellion against Queen Mary’s taking a Spanish bridegroom.

“Here, Your Majesty.” Knollys had stopped at a carved door at the end of the corridor and now sorted amongst his jangling ring of keys for the one that fit the rusted lock. “There is not much here, but I do believe the contents of the room belonged to the Queen.” He swung the heavy door open into a room which, though not much bigger than a closet, must have once been some lucky waiting lady or courtier’s private apartment. Knollys pulled aside a heavy arras revealing a filthy window. Dust played along the streaks of sunlight that managed to shine through the glass. “Shall I bring you a torch?”

“No, no. Push open the window. That will do.” With a great creaking, the leaded glass was thrown wide and the chamber was now awash in morning sun.

“Thank you, Francis. I am very grateful. You may leave me.”

“Your Majesty.” Knollys bowed stiff-legged and backed out the door, closing it quietly behind Elizabeth. Finally alone with all that was left of her mother, she found herself looking around greedily, her eyes falling on one object after another—here an embroidered pillow, there a carelessly folded tapestry, a pair of brass candlesticks, a crucifix, a cracked Venetian glass bell.

Elizabeth pulled open the rude wooden wardrobe. Inside it there limply hung a faded overgown trimmed in russet and orange, its tiny waist and bodice giving credence to the rumors of Anne’s birdlike frame.

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