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ANNE OF THE THOUSAND DAYS

Anne of the Thousand Days

BAILIFF

Act One

PROLOGUE

If I were to die now—

but I must not die yet,

not yet.

It’s been too brief. A few weeks and days.

How many days, I wonder, since the first time

I gave myself, to that last day when he—

when he left me at the lists and I saw him no more?

Well, I can reckon it.

I have time enough. Those who sit in the Tower

don’t lack for time.

[She takes out a little wax tablet, with a stylus]

He could never cipher.

He was shrewd and heavy—

and cunning with his tongue, and wary in intrigue,

but when it came to adding up an account

he filled it with errors and bit his tongue—

and swore—

till I slapped his hands like a child and took the pen

and made it straight.

“A king,” I said, “a king, and cannot reckon.”

I was his clever girl then, his Nan;

he’d kiss me then, and maul me, and take me down.

On the rushes. Anywhere.

Why do I think of it now? Would he kill me? Kill me?

[She laughs]

Henry? The fool? That great fool kill me?

God knows I deserve it. God knows I tried to kill,

and it may be I succeeded.

I did succeed. I know too well I succeeded,

and I’m guilty, for I brought men to death unjustly,

as this death of mine will be unjust if it comes—

only I taught them the way. And I’m to die

in the way I contrived. . . . It may be. . . .

No, but Henry. He could not. Could not . . .

Could I kill him, I wonder?

I feel it in my hands perhaps I could.

So—perhaps he could kill me.

Perhaps he could kill me.

If it came tomorrow, how many days

would it have been,

[She makes a mark on the tablet]

beginning with our first day?

[The lights dim down and go out except on Anne’s face. She remains visible in reverie during the first few moments of the first scene]

Act One

SCENE 1

Mary?

Yes, father.

You watch for someone?

I thought I saw the king on the road below.

We were to talk over the enclosure of a hunting park near Hever.

He’s here to see you, then?

I think so, child.

Not me?

Not this time.

But I may speak to him in passing, surely?

Perhaps—but—
[He pauses in embarrassment]
I wonder if you could do this? Could you go to your room while he’s here—and not see him—and send no message?

Why?

Could you do this?

Go to my room! But for what reason? I have some rights in this house I should think—as your daughter, if not as the wife of my husband. And in the kingdom as the king’s mistress, which, God help me, I am, and which you have encouraged me to be!

Did you need encouraging, Mary? Think back on the fever you were in those days. Did you need encouragement?

If I am sent out of the way I shall ask the king why.

Very well.

And now. I shall ask him now!

The truth is, the king sent ahead to make sure we two could speak alone. He and I.

He asked—not to see me?

Not in so many words—but—

That could mean—I was not to see him again.

One never gets used to these things—there’s always a hell to go through. But when a girl gives herself so completely—

You knew when I gave myself! And where. It has helped you! Yes, you live by it! Steward of Tunbridge and Penshurst, sheriff of Bradsted, viscount, king’s treasurer—and all these revenues have come to you since I opened my bedroom door to him!

Mary, girl, I’ve always loved you. I wouldn’t want to hurt you in any way. And all these things are true. The king has been generous to me because you were generous to him—and I know that and I’ve known it all the time. But could I have refused what he gave? I’ve been grateful to you, Mary—and ashamed of having to be grateful—yet I couldn’t refuse what was offered. And now—if you’ve lost the king, I don’t know how to help with that. I shall help any other way I can. . . . You still have your husband.

Who wants my husband?

I’m caught here, Mary—we’re all caught. . . .

It’s true, though. The moment I became all his, and held nothing back, I had lost the king, and I knew it. Yes, I’ve lost him—

[mary turns Away. As she does so an elegantly robed prelate enters from stage right. The girl goes out past the ecclesiastic without trusting herself to speak. The newcomer is Cardinal Wolsey]

You’ve told her?

Yes.

And Anne?

The earl is with her.

The king rode close behind me, Thomas.

My dear Cardinal, I have encouraged Anne with the young noble. He’ll have the greatest estates in the north of England. It was something off my mind that Anne should like him and want him, for she’s not easy to please. It never entered my head that the king had noticed her. What can I say to her now?

To send the earl away.

I think they have a sort of engagement between them.

Well—the king’s here.

I think it would need more time.

Suppose you take the king to look at your hounds. Tell him that Anne had ordered a new dress and there’s some trouble with it—her hands tremble over the fastenings, and other rubbish of that sort. I’ll speak to Anne and to the earl.

Well—if you’ll manage it.

[A servant enters]

My lord—

[henry viii enters behind the servant. A rough, shrewd, merry, brutal man in the thirties, accustomed to making himself at home in this house and with all his subjects when he thinks the effect might be good. norris and smeaton enter after him]

[To Norris and Smeaton] Wait for me, gentlemen. Only your king, Thomas. No ceremony. Only your Henry.
[Nevertheless he gives his hand to be kissed and boleyn kisses it. norris and smeaton go out]
And how’s the vicar of hell this chilly spring morning?

[The servant goes out]

I keep warm, Majesty.

I’m sure you do. With your feet on the devil’s fender. Meanwhile toasting your paddocks at God’s altar.

And running the king’s errands. It’s a busy life.

Has he done my errand?

Yes, he has.

May I smell this pretty posy of yours?

My lord, if you mean Anne, she’s still at her mirror, and—if you could give her a half hour.

We’ve this whole day.

There was a clump of red deer grazing within view when I last looked out. In velvet, but they give promise of sport later.

We’ll see them. We’ll see your red deer, and afterward we’ll appraise what was seen in that same looking glass.

[He turns]

Good hunting, Majesty.

You won’t be with us?

It happens there is a poor soul in the house who seeks the ministrations of a religious. I must go where I am called.

You will go wherever it’s most profitable for the Cardinal of York to be at any given time. So go there, and no more of these holy thin excuses.

Yes, Majesty.

[He goes out]

There’s no hurry about the deer. I want three words with you.

Yes?

There’s always a temptation, when a man’s in my position, that he’ll think of the nation as his own trough, and get all four feet in it and eat from one end to the other. I don’t want to look like that to anybody.

You don’t, my sovereign.

I’m a religious man, Boleyn. I want to do what’s right in the eyes of God and the church. And myself—and my people—and you.

That’s a swath of folk to satisfy—if you include God.

I include both God and the women—among them your daughters. What will your daughters say of me—the two of them together—talking at night?

What two women say together—talking at night of one man who has wanted them both—and taken both. No man will ever know that. But I think—if you don’t mind—

I’ve asked you.

I think you go a little rapid with Annie. You’ll need to be gentle.

But she’ll have me—in the end?

She’s no fool, my lord.

[After a pause] What I do is God’s will.

Now, if a man or a monarch could be sure of that!

I’ve worked it out, in my mind—

I pray to God.

[He hesitates]

I tell you this first, Boleyn.

God answers prayer. That’s known. Every morning I go on my knees

and pray that what I do may be God’s will.

I pray him to direct me—that whatever thought

comes to my mind—whatever motion

floods in my heart—shall be God’s will—and I

only His instrument. Wherever I turn,

whatever I do—whether to reach for food,

or thread my way among the crossed paths of the law,

or interpret the holy word,

or judge men innocent—or guilty—

every morning I pray Him on my knees

nothing shall rise in my brain or heart but He

has wished it first.

And since He answers prayer,

and since He’s given me such heavy power to act,

power for good and evil,

He must answer this. He does answer.

I find such peace

in this, that not one morning my whole life long

shall I fail these devotions.

This is a noble thought, of course, but Your Majesty realizes that it might be used as an excuse for—

For what?

For doing as you please.

I’m quite serious, Boleyn. I want no trifling.

It was not my intention to trifle.

But you do! I tell you I pray and God answers!

Yes, my lord.

I am younger than you. I am younger than Wolsey.

I am younger than many dukes and earls and peers.

But I am the king of England. When I pray God answers.

I will not have this questioned.

Yes, my lord.

[norris and smeaton enter]

We’re sent as a delegation, my lord.

Come in, come in. Pour it on, whatever it is. Your king is your natural receptacle for whatever you can’t hold any longer.

The fact is we are sent to keep you amused while Sir Thomas Boleyn confers with his lady wife. There is a sort of kitchen rebellion afoot and his voice is needed.

Go, Boleyn, mollify your women.

If you’ll excuse me.

[He goes]

Come in, lads. I want a word with you, anyway—man to man, kingship aside. You buzz the girls you two—you’ve thrust your hands in amongst a flutter of larks often enough and pulled out the one you wanted. Tell me, what’s the best cast of all for a maiden?

A maid, Your Majesty?

I wouldn’t swear to that. Not medically. But a young one—a bit wild—uncaught.

I couldn’t say of my own knowledge, sir, but Tom Wyatt has an unfailing way. He writes them poems.

But you can’t catch a ticklish hoyden with madrigals. That’s for matrons.

Then your lure, Smeaton? Your favorite?

My king, my acquaintance doesn’t run among the grade of females you seek. I’m more successful with waiting women and ladies’ maids.

Don’t be modest, lad. I’ve followed your spoor so close there was scarce time to close the window you left by—or change perfumes to put me off the scent—

Truly, truly—

I’ve breathed your same air in some close quarters, singer. So speak on. Your lure. Your most seductive.

Why, being a singer, I sing to them a good deal—but, in addition to that—you will not be offended?

I’ll be offended if you keep back, musician. Be ashamed of nothing. We live in a new age, a new time. I was born within a year of the discovery of the new world. We revise all the old laws to suit ourselves. And the mysteries and manners.

Why, then, if you truly want her, make her believe you’re potent only with her, Majesty, and that will do the business. Make out that you’ve tried with numbers of others, gone to bed and kissed hotly, and hung embarrassed and unable. But with her you rouse up. You’re a man again. They can’t resist that. They open like—

Never mind the simile. There’s nothing like it. But, lad, this is new, this device.

I think it’s my own.

And ingenious.
[norfolk enters]
We’re speaking of the best way to woo a green maid, Norfolk. You’re a man of expedients. You know these things—if you haven’t forgotten them.

Why, my advice is, if you want a woman, take her.

There are certain preliminaries. There’s consent, anyway. You must have consent.

Nonsense. Take her and make her like it. Why should a woman have anything to say about it?

It may have been so in the good old days. Today we woo—and wait.

Do you wish her to be in love with you, my lord?

That I do.

Do you wish to be in love with her?

In love with her? I? Personally? Now, I’ll tell you the truth, so far my experience of being in love is like this: love is a kind of wanting, a panting and sighing and longing. What does a man desire of a lass, anyway? To be assuaged. He wants his pain assuaged. Well, that done, what more’s to be done?

Is it lèse-majesté, or may I ask—

Nothing is lèse-majesté in this conversation.

Have you ever been refused by a maid?

Refused? I? No, I think not. When I’ve wanted them I’ve had them. And once I’ve had a wench, I’m cured. That’s general, isn’t it? Broad and narrow?

My king, with me it’s the opposite. Once I’ve mixed flesh and lips with her I’m in danger of a golden wedding—should we both live.

It can happen so?

The poor gudgeon’s hooked now. He’ll never swim free again.

And she won’t look at me.

Keep me from that, good God!

Can you youngsters leave talking of virgins long enough to look at the venison?

Yes—come. Next to the haunch of a virgin there’s nothing like a haunch of venison.

[The lights go out on the scene]

Act One

SCENE 2

I’m angry with myself about one thing.

Yes, dear.

I spent two years at the court of Queen Claude. I met there the silkened flower of the aristocracy. Such manners, such grace, such horsemanship and dancing! They spoke Greek, they spoke Latin, they spoke Italian—and they spoke their own French with a wit and a fencer’s point that gave me a new glimpse of what a language could be!

But what disappointed you?

Among them there were—well, truly gallant men. Captivating men. Charmers. With an ease of carriage—and a way with women that . . . and I fell in love with none of them. I came home and promptly fell in love with a—a thistle. A countryman from the north. With no graces at all. Can’t dance. Can’t sing. Can hardly speak English.

Can put his arm around you.

Doesn’t do that well. Not as well as I’ve known it done. But it’s the one arm I want—for some God-knows-what reason. You do everything badly—everything awkwardly—and I love it the way you do it.

I’m glad I wasn’t educated in France.

Why?

You wouldn’t have loved me.

I wonder. It may be true.

Silks are for holiday. Honest homespun wears through the years.

One thing though. If we love enough to marry we must love enough to keep nothing back. I shall keep nothing from you.

Nor I from you, sweet.

But you have. You don’t know what I mean.

Are we to lie together? Before?

If you like. But that’s not it.

My bonny, what more can there be than that?

Kiss me hard.

[He kisses her]

I wish I had you in my house.

[Musing] That’s part of it, too. To be Lady Anne, and live with you in your house, and sleep with you at night, and in the morning—well, the servants will bring in breakfast to the earl—to Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, and his wife.

Will you like that?

Yes. It’s far from the court. It’s buried in the north hills, a long way off. But it’s power, and I love you, and I’ll like it. Tell me, are you a virgin?

I?

Yes, Earl of Northumberland—you.

I’m a man.

I know. But are you a virgin? When we bed together shall I be your first?

I—

Don’t be confused, dear. Folk are such barbarians here in England! Say it out as it was. For me, I’ll say it all frankly, the way they do in France. In England we make muddy mysteries of such things. As if they were crimes—but they’ve happened to all of us. We don’t come out of a rainbow at seventeen and there’s no use pretending we did. You may ask me whatever you like.

[A pause]

Are you a virgin?

No.

[They look away from each other]

Was this something that happened in France?

Yes. But long before France, too. When I was little I was playing with a boy in the woods near Hever, not far from here. We quarreled about something, and he threw me down and—
[She rises]
God help me, I’m blushing. All over. I thought I’d finished with that. But no—it began at my heels—I could feel it—and rushed up in a wave till now it burns at the roots of my hair. And I’ve told this before—

Without blushing?

[Defiantly] Yes! But there’s something in the foggy, torpid air of this island that makes people want to hide things. Like savages.

There might be another reason.

What?

Look at me.
[She does so]
Were you ever in love before?

I think—no. No.

Now I’m no spring of wisdom in these matters, Anne, but it may be you’re not a woman till you’re in love. It may be you’ve nothing to hide till then.

[Slowly] Yes. It may be. It may be that you’re wiser than you think.

I hope so. A man has to be wiser than he thinks or he won’t go far.

It’s strange. I stand here still trying to say it to you—and it’s a perfectly natural thing—and my tongue won’t say it.

Never mind. I don’t want to hear it.

You are a Boeotian, aren’t you, darling? You’re horribly embarrassed. But you shouldn’t be, and I shouldn’t. I won’t take up with these shamefaced country manners—

I don’t want to hear it. I’m afraid I don’t like this game you learned in Paris.

Were you an angel, darling?

No. I was not.

Tell me about the girls. How many and when.

One thing you’d best learn now, my sweet. I’ll be the man of the house when we have a house, and if any game’s to be played I’ll lead in that game and not follow. I don’t want to sear my tongue or redden my forehead with this kind of thing. The game I like now is to put my arms about you and say nothing.

You know, I think I like that better, too. Come, then.
[percy takes Anne in his arms again. At the same moment a shadow moves toward them from the center of the stage, and anne puts up a hand to hold Percy’s lips from hers]
I think the Cardinal is here.

[She rises. Percy keeps his seat and holds her hand. wolsey steps toward them into the light. percy rises]

I’m glad I find you together, for I have to speak to you both. I’m sorry to find you so intimate, for it’s about that I have to speak to you. My lord, your father and the king have given some thought to where you shall marry, and an alliance with the Talbots, through one of the daughters of the Earl of Shrewsbury, is thought best.

An—alliance with—! Not by me, my lord Cardinal.

Anne, my dear, your father has a claim on the Ormond estates in Ireland. He and the king have agreed that you will marry the Earl of Ormond to reinforce that claim.

I—marry into Ireland?

It’s so decided.

But how can you—? It’s not so decided! Not one word of this has been said to me! Of Ormond or Ireland—!

Your father will deal with you. As for Lord Percy, remember, if you will, that I brought you to court and that you are still a member of my household. A half-grown steer and a leggy girl will not be allowed to overturn the policies of England, fixed in council.

But, my lord, I am of full age, and I have pledged myself to this girl before many witnesses—among them her own father! It’s a good match for both of us, and nothing’s been said against it till this moment! More than that, we’ve pledged ourselves to each other, and our hearts go with that pledge!

No doubt. And this is the reward I get for my kindness to you.

[He turns away]

[Softly] My lord Cardinal, that we two are in love, and have been these two months, every servant in the house knows, for we’ve made no secret of it before them or anyone. That we are in love, that we mean to marry, has been no secret from the whole world all that time. Why you’ve come here now to tell us suddenly that we’re to match elsewhere, we don’t know. There must be some reason behind it. Tell us what it is.

I have told you.

Then you talk nonsense, and I won’t listen!

Nor I!

I stand here as the king’s minister, and you’re aware of that. I knew a great lord to die for less than you have just said. His name was Buckingham.

[More humbly] You know I have no wish to anger the king. But tell us what this means and why you say it to us.

[Thundering] Do you think the king and I come lightly to such decisions as this? Do you think we have not weighed every reason for and against before we issue a command? One thing I can tell you, you will obey or your estates are forfeit! If you continue disloyal it’s doubtful how long you will live! Go now, for I wish to speak to Anne alone.

Anne—

Yes, you must go.

Kiss me then.

Do not touch her.

All this talk of sudden death makes it very easy for you, my lord. But I shall kiss her if I like.

[And he does so]

Only take care of yourself. I shall see you.

Yes.

[He turns and goes stage right, into darkness. Anne stands silent and defiant, looking at Wolsey]

Look your knives through and through me, mistress. At my age it will do me no hurt—and at yours, though you hurt easily, you will cure quickly. Are you serious about this thorn apple from the north?

My lord—he’s mine—and I’m his.

But if there were another and worthier, well, you could change?

No.

But I think when you see him you will.

The Lord of Ormond? Hardly.

That was only a name plucked out of the air. I had another in mind.

I want no other. And if you do him harm—this my chosen husband—I am only a girl, but you will know you have an enemy!

Look down at your necklace, Anne. Do you see a writing on it?

There’s no writing on it.

There is, though, and I can see it, though it may not be visible to you as yet. The writing is a quotation from a poem. It says: “Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am.” You have studied Latin?

Yes.

“Touch me not,” the translation might go, “I belong to the king.”

What king?

We have only one king in England.

I want no king. I want only the person of my choice.

When Harry of England turns his eyes on a girl she can hardly look away.

[After a pause] Forgive me if I seem slow to understand what you say. Do you mean that King Henry has looked at me?

Yes.

And sent you to me?

It is sometimes my pleasure to anticipate his desires.

[Two figures come toward them out of shadow from stage right]

Perhaps you would be wise to anticipate the answer he will receive from me if he comes. We have had him in the bosom of our family for some years. My sister is probably with child by him at the moment. And of no further use to him. I shall not go the way of my sister, thank you—

[thomas boleyn and his wife, elizabeth, come forward out of the shadow]

Anne!

Do you also offer me up to this royal bull—you, my father? And you, my mother?

Hush, daughter! Manage your voice. He’s in the house.

[There is a silence]

Why is he here?

To see you.

Well—you’ve let him come—I haven’t. Find some way out of it.

It’s not my doing. It’s his. He came quite openly demanding you. And since that is what every girl in England prays for, how was I to know it would displease you?

Do you know what it is to be in love? Either of you? Do you remember? Remember what it’s like to have your whole life follow one person out at the door—and not to live again, and not want to live, till he returns?

You have been in France—and at the court.

I’ve been many places, and done more things than you know—yet there’s only one man I want now! And I’ll have no one else! No one! Mother!

[Softly] Yes—I said these things once—all of them—and I would help you now if I could. But I know now that we’re not free to have or take or choose. You are here—and you live—and we all of us live—because we took advantage when it came our way, because we stood at the door and waited, because we smiled where a smile would help, and kissed when a kiss would help—

And struck down where a death would help! And we’re not safe now! If you think we’re safe, or that you are, or that we’ll ever be safe, or that you will, you’re more of a fool than any daughter of mine has a right to be!

Do you know what it means when a king asks for you? Do you know what goes with it?

Yes—I know that. I know, all too exactly.

If he feels a coldness in you he’ll not want you, I can assure you of that. Indicate only a slight doubt—and the king will be gone. He is not accustomed to hesitations.

And do you know what it means when a king asks for you and you turn him away? We can say farewell to all we’ve worked for and all we have if we lose the king’s favor.

Then say good-by to all that—all of you—this whole family and house—for I won’t have the king! I don’t want him and I won’t have him!

As for this boy you’ve set your heart on—this Northumberland—don’t count on him beyond the castle gate. Would he dare touch a girl the king had bid for?

Would he dare marry into a family which had displeased his sovereign?

He would dare anything!

He will not dare either of these.

My lord Cardinal, we are only one family among many at court—and in this family only two sisters, Mary and I. Surely one of two sisters should be enough. Surely he could look elsewhere now.

There are only two things to blame—the king’s will, and your own self, your form and face and words. The king has seen you and heard your voice and liked you. I can’t change you and I can’t change him.

He is our king, Anne. He is a great king. He is young and handsome. He knows poetry and music; he speaks and dances better than any other in the court. Surely it’s not hard to think well of him.

Yes, mother. I’ve been well trained. I’m trying now. . . . Young? Well, it’s true he married at eighteen, but he’s been married nearly seventeen years, and if all his children had lived, legitimate and illegitimate, there would have been at least a dozen. He can be only fairly faithful to a mistress. I think my sister Mary kept him longest. That lasted four years—and now that’s over. And what becomes of Mary? No, I won’t ask that. He’s a great king, you say. It’s true that his father, who was unscrupulous and a miser, left him a mountain of money. It’s true therefore that he has great power, but as for his being a great king, I rather doubt it, for he’s neither wise nor just nor merciful. You say he knows poetry and music. He’s much praised for his poetry and music at the court, where, as you have noticed, if you don’t praise him you’re likely to be unlucky. You say he speaks and dances better than any about him—and wouldn’t it be a silly courtier who outdanced the proud Henry? When it comes to warfare his wife Katharine is a better soldier than he. She won the great battle of Flodden Field while he was abroad subjugating two minor French towns with an army sufficient to conquer all Europe.

[A shadow moves into the darkness at stage center and henry’s voice is heard]

[Still unseen] You there! Kindly inquire if the king may enter! Right! Right! I speak to you! A sovereign has so little privacy that he knows how to respect the privacy of others. So ask! Inquire!

[Appearing at the edge of the ring of light] May the king come in?

That says it. That puts it bluntly. A good honest half-witted servingman you have here, if ever I saw one. Aren’t you, fellow?

[He claps the servant on the back]

If Your Majesty please, yes, Sire.

Your Majesty knows that you are always welcome in this house.

As you in mine, Sir Thomas. And now my manners. I have greeted all here, I think, save only the Lady Anne. Sweet Nan, will you give me a kiss?

Yes, Your Majesty.

[He comes forward with his arms jovially outstretched, anne bows, then takes one of his hands and kisses it coolly]

It was not such a kiss I meant, my dear.

I have been drinking foul medicines for a cold, my lord. You would never forgive my breath.

Have you tried hippocras, a strong glassful every hour, steaming hot?

No, I haven’t.

You shall have some of my own brewing. I’ll send it today. For your health is very dear to me, sweet Nan, and you must keep well. We live all too brief a time—and what little we have should not be wasted in sickness.
[He stoops suddenly and kisses her]
There is neither fever nor medicine on your lips, sweetheart, but such a honey scent as bashful maidens breathe. . . . Shall I send away this chaperonage that rings us round?

No.

I will, though, by your leave; no, without your leave. Mothers, fathers, churchmen, all these may depart.
[wolsey and the boleyns, thomas and elizabeth, bow out backward toward stage right]
You would never credit how fast my heart beats, nor how hard it is to draw breath. A king is not fortunate in these matters, Nan. I come to you as frightened as a ’prentice who takes his first nosegay to a wench—but whether you like me or not—whether any woman likes me or not—I shall never know. I shall never be sure I have the truth—because I am the king, and love is paid to me like taxes. . . . Do me this favor, Nan. Look on me not as a monarch who commands and may demand, but as the doubting, hoping, tremulous man I am—wishing to be loved for myself.

If you were a common man, doubtful of yourself, and tremulous, would you have sent an ambassador to warn me and make sure of me?

Did I send an ambassador?

Wolsey speaks for you, I believe.

Has he spoken clumsily?

No, very deftly. He made it plain that what the king wanted he would have.

Then he was clumsy. I swear to you, Nan, only this very cruel thing has happened to me: I have fallen in love. I tried to argue myself out of it, but seeing you day by day here, and trying not to see you, not to think about you, I have tangled myself deeper day by day, till now I can’t keep it to myself. I must tell you. And ask your pity. . . . The truth is I dared not speak to you first myself. I was afraid.

You were afraid?

Yes.

Of what?

That you wouldn’t care for me.

Then perhaps you will understand the very cruel thing that has happened to me: I have fallen in love. And not with you.

By God!

You were complaining a moment ago that such remarks were not made to kings.

By God, I got it full in the face that time! Who is it? Northumberland?

Would I be wise to tell you?

Never mind. I know. I’ve been told but I didn’t believe it. How far has it gone?

We mean to be married.

Yes?

But not as my sister’s married. He would not be a complaisant husband—and I would not be an accessible wife.

All wives are accessible—any husband can be placated!

Not all.

Yes, all! But I don’t want you that way! Damn my soul, and yours—I want you to myself!

What can I do?

Give up this young wattle and daub—

give him up, I tell you,

and this kingdom shall turn round you, bishops and peers—

and whatever you’ve wanted, for anyone,

a knighthood,

an estate, a great income rolling in forever,

titles and places, you shall dispose of them

just as you please!

And be thrown out in the end

like a dirty rag. I haven’t seen Mary disposing

of revenues.

She asked for nothing. Look, Anne,

I stand here desperate. I can’t bargain with you.

Ask for what you want.

To be free. To be free

to marry where I love.

[henry pauses]

No.

I’ve seen you too close

and known you too long. I’ve heard what your courtiers say

and then I’ve seen what you are. You’re spoiled and vengeful,

and malicious and bloody. The poetry they praise

so much is sour, and the music you write’s worse.

You dance like a hobbledehoy; you make love

as you eat—with a good deal of noise and no subtlety.

It was my doubtful pleasure once to sleep in Mary’s room—

or to lie awake when you thought me asleep—and observe

the royal porpoise at play—

This is not safe.

Yes, I’ve been told it’s not safe for any of us

to say no to our Squire Harry. This put-on, kindly

hail-fellow-well-met of yours. My father’s house

will be pulled down—and Northumberland’s, too, they tell me.

Well, pull them down. You are what I said.

I had no wish to come here. I came

because I must, and couldn’t help myself.

Well—I’m well out of it. Let it end here this morning.

I thank you for your anger,

and for raising anger in me. There’s no better way

to make an end.

Say farewell to all here.

I’ll go back to my ancient wife and my cold statecraft,

card houses and card empires . . .

and card ruins.

[He turns]

You will not—touch—Northumberland?

I’ll try not.

Bloody as I am, I’ll try not.

[He calls]

Wolsey!

[He turns and goes into darkness]

Where’s the fat saddlebags? Where’s this vicar of hell?

[The lights go out]

Act One

SCENE 3

Then I could only wait,

and pace my room,

and write to Northumberland in secret,

saying, “I’ve sent him away. Take care of yourself.

But for God’s sake come if you can—

for I’m alone.”

And I waited alone. In my little room.

It was my father’s pleasure

to keep me prisoner in my little room.

And over and over the one dream, the one dream

whenever I’d fall asleep—

Northumberland standing

with his arms stretched out to me

[At stage right a figure is glimpsed in darkness]

and his eyes torn out and bleeding—

[We see percy with bloody eyes, reaching out his hands]

as I see him now.

I tried not to sleep, for when I slept,

day or night, I saw him there.

Till the news came.

[The figure of percy vanishes]

They wouldn’t tell me at first.

The messenger came to the kitchen.

[A half-light comes up at stage left. In it a courier can be seen with a woman servant]

I’ve ridden thirty-five hours and I’m dead for sleep.

This is for the Lady Anne. Nobody’s to know.

[He hands over a letter]

Where are you from?

From Northumberland. Let me lie down here—anywhere.

I’m dead.

[He throws himself on the floor and sleeps instantly]

[Fingering the letter] Is it good or bad? He’s under already. Man!

[She shakes him]

Man! Is it good or bad?

[There’s no response from the courier]

It can’t be good or it ’ud ’a’ traveled slower. I’d

best keep it in my pocket.

[She pockets the letter. The lights go out on stage left]

But when she brought it at last

it cut through my years

like a dull knife through screaming flesh. I feel it yet.

“I’m a prisoner, too,

and I’m to be married,” it said.

“To the Shrewsbury hag. She hates me and I hate her.

One of us will murder the other. I’m afraid God’s on her side,

and she’ll kill me first.

Anne, my bonny, forgive me.”

Well, she did kill him. Anyway, there was no love between them,

and within two years he was dead.

And the king came back to Mary,

and she took him, took him again,

and began to have a child by him—

and again he left her.

And still I sat in my room.

And again the king came to see us.

[mary boleyn appears near stage center and speaks to Anne, who seems to sit at the window of her bedroom at the right]

Father says

you’re to make yourself ready in the best you have.

The king will be here tonight.

[Anne is silent]

Make yourself pretty, dear.

I know you’re weary of your room. It’s you he wants to see.

Make yourself charming.

And don’t think of me.

Oh, I’m to appear.

[She comes over to Anne and kisses her]

But you know, dear, the human liver or lights—

or heart—or whatever one loves with—

these are tough, perdurable organs. I can look at him

and it won’t matter. I’ve . . . I can look at him.

[Anne is still silent]

Yes, as you do.

I don’t even dislike him.

I begin to be in love with someone else.

Oh?

Yes—so—I mean it—

wear the best you have.

[She moves toward stage right]

I’d stay and help you—only—

I’m dressing up—for somebody else.

It’s silly, but I am.

[The lights go out on Mary]

[Again in the Tower cell] He had been hunting, they said, and

threw down his bow and said, “I must see her.”

[At stage right the lights come up on King Henry sitting in a hunting pavilion, stringing a bow. Wolsey holds spare staves and arrows near-by]

The first buck you struck died in the midst of a leap. The arrow pierced him through and brought out heart’s blood on the other side.

Is there any other sovereign in Europe who could plant an arrow behind the shoulder of a stag in motion?

There is not one who could kill a deer in any decent fashion. I have heard that the Emperor Charles hunts the boar with powder and ball.

Let us not believe evil of any man or prince till proved.

True. It was only a rumor.

Give me the longbow. [Quoting] “Who list to hunt, I know where is an hind—.”

[An attendant in shadow hands him a bow]

As for the longbow, there is no other man in all Europe, commoner, noble, or sovereign, who could flex this stave of yours a full yard.

[Fitting a cord to the bow] A man’s not as good at thirty-five as at twenty though.
[He throws down the bow and arrow]
Damn the hunting—and damn all entertainment! And damn all women! Why must it be this one girl I want—who doesn’t want me? We’ll give over here. “Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.” I’ll see her.

[The lights go out on Henry and Wolsey, then, after the next scene begins, on Anne]

Act One

SCENE 4

Set it here and I’ll put the basket of cakes beside it. When I make seedcakes like these he eats the basket empty, down to the last. I’ve made plenty this time.

That’s right, feed him up and fat him. He’s got himself trained down till he can jump in the air in the middle of a dance and crack his hocks together three times. You’ll ruin that with your cakes.

Would you have every man thin but you, you great hunk?

I’d keep my king thin because he’ll live longer.

He was born to be oversize. Has a king no right to be heavy?

Not my king hasn’t. . . . Where do I put the chairs for the musicians?

Here, near His Majesty. Come in, masters.
[three musicians, with violins of the period, come in through the curtains from stage right]
We’ll put the chairs for you here, and the king himself will bring you the music. He writes a round, clear hand, music and words, and you’ll read it easily.

[The servants place chairs for the musicians, who sit to tune their instruments. One of them plays a little mournful sprig of a tune]

When you’ve finished with that sad kind of stuff there’s sweet sack in the buttery.

We’ll have it afterward, if you’ll save it. Here they come.

[The whole stage begins to light up. The curtains at the rear now look like a wall tapestry showing the return of the Prodigal Son. The musicians’ stools and the king’s chair and table are seen at stage right. elizabeth and mary enter, dressed for a formal occasion. anne follows them]

There was more than a little talk about you and the king—when you were young.

Well, be sure it all came to nothing, and none of you children are his—though I’m not sure I could have held him off if he’d tried hard for me. We were about of an age, and we danced together a good deal, and he had the face of an angel in those days. And danced like an angel. But he was naïve and gentle—and I think he’d have been afraid to ask me. There was something innocent and pure about him then. He wanted to be a good king. He wanted to be a great king—almost a Messiah.

He’s changed indeed.

Yes. He reads Machiavelli now.

[elizabeth and mary take their places]

But when he came to me first, he was still naïve. He was afraid of women who might be difficult. He wanted someone to whom he could say, “Open, sesame,” and she’d open. I’m afraid that’s what attracted him to me. He said, “Open, sesame,” and there I was. His—his mule. It’s his own word.

You may yet be the mother of a king of England.

[anne sits beside her mother]

Small chance of that. And small reward in it.

It’s more than I’ve ever had—of anything. And it won’t happen so easily again. He’s grown infinitely more complex—and brutal. He wants a woman who will resist—a woman hardly won, a Roman conquest.

I’ve hated him from the beginning. I hate him now.

That’s what he wants.

I hate him and I hate Wolsey. What they did was like a murder. . . . It killed him. I think it will kill me too.

If women died as easily as men there would be no women in this world.

If you ever go to him, lock up your heart, never surrender yourself, keep a cold reserve of hate and anger and laughter and unfaith—

Thank you—I shall not go to him.

For the moment you are won and conquered and a worshiper he will give you back to yourself and walk away. He’ll want no more of you.

I shan’t go to him, nor let him come to me. I’m not sure I shall live. Tell me why I should wish to live.

[thomas boleyn enters from stage left]

Are we ready?

Quite ready, Thomas.

I think the king is waiting and anxious.

We are waiting.

[boleyn crosses the stage and looks within the curtains at stage left, then returns to stand behind his wife. three boy singers enter and take places near the musicians. king henry comes from stage left, his hands full of manuscripts. The women rise and bow. wolsey follows henry in and waits]

I am not here tonight as your king. Something was said at one time—I forget by whom—about my bad poetry and bad music. It rankled deep—but then I saw that there was only one answer: to write great poetry and great music. And since I have a cause for anguish in my life, and songs come out of anguish, I have heard these strains in the night when I woke out of sleep, and I have risen and written them down. Many songs came to me. This is only one. It may be it is not a great song, but when I hear it I know it sings what is in my heart—the pain and the loss and the parting that’s like death. Here are your parts, masters. Play it and sing it as it is written, and sing it gravely, for it carries the awkward burden of a grief.

[The king sits in his chair after giving out the music. The musicians look over the parts briefly, then the leader raps for attention and they begin. Wolsey stands behind the king]

Alas, alas,

What shall I do

For love, for love,

Alas what shall I do—

Since now so kind I do you find—

To keep you me unto?

To keep you me unto?

Oh my heart,

Oh my heart,

My heart it is so sore,

Since I must needs from my love depart,

And know no cause therefore—

And know no cause therefore!

[The singers go out stage right. henry crosses to Anne]

The music will now play a saraband of my writing. Will you dance it with me, Nan?

[anne looks down at the floor for a moment, rises silently and puts out her hands for the dance. The music begins and they take the first steps of the saraband. Then the lights dim down and close in till we see nothing but the faces of Henry and Anne. The music hushes to pianissimo, so that we can hear their voices. They cease dancing, and now we see only their two faces motionless in a medallion of light]

Northumberland is dead.

Not by my order.

You sent him to marry elsewhere—and it killed him.

I couldn’t let him marry you. I tried—but I couldn’t.

When I look in your face I see his murderer.

I have learned something that makes me very humble, Nan. One cannot choose where he will love. Even a king cannot choose. I tried again and again to love elsewhere. I didn’t want to come here, this year or last. But here I am. Bringing you the best I have—my music and my poetry and my love for you.

Even if I loved you, you offer me nothing. You’re not free.

Not free?

You are married to Katharine.

Does that matter to a king? A king makes his own rules.

Does he? A king or no king, if he’s married he’s not free.

If you loved me you’d find me free.

From your marriage?

Here is my marriage, Nan. My older brother Arthur was heir to the kingdom. To make an alliance with Spain he married Katharine of Aragon. Then Arthur died—and I was heir to the throne of England. To continue the alliance with Spain I was advised to marry Arthur’s widow, six years my senior. And I did. At seventeen I married her. I never loved her. I should never have married my brother’s widow. There’s a curse on the marriage. We cannot have sons. Our sons are all born dead. There is no heir male to the English crown because of this accursed union. The kingdom faces anarchy when I die, and I face anarchy in my own life, because I have no male heir—yet because of the church and our friendship with Spain, I remain Katharine’s husband. More than anything in this world I want a son, and she can’t give me one—yet I must not publicly put her aside. Do you understand now? This marriage is a form—important only in statecraft and churchcraft, not to you or me.

Important or not, you can’t break it. It’s stronger than you are—and so you offer me nothing.

It’s not nothing, Nan. It’s my whole life. I know because I tried to erase you and fill my life with other things. It won’t work. I can think of nothing but you.
[She has been looking straight into his eyes. She drops her head]
It’s not only this pain, this stitch in the side, this poetry I can’t keep from writing, this music that I hear when I think of you and must write down. . . . I’m a man, too, Nan. I want you—and only you. I find myself—when I’m talking to an ambassador, perhaps—I find myself thinking of you. And what am I thinking? Of you and me playing at dog and bitch. Of you and me playing at horse and mare. Of you and me every way there is. I want to fill you up—night after night. I want to fill you with sons.

Bastards? For they would be bastards, you know.

[There is a long pause. The music stops. The lights come up on the whole scene, revealing Henry and Anne in the middle of the stage, the others watching]

If you say one more word I shall strike you. One word more.

[In his teeth] But it’s quite obvious that if you and I had children they would be bastards.

[There is another long pause, then henry strikes Anne heavily across the face. She goes down to one knee. wolsey and boleyn step forward, but do not interfere]

[Low] Your Majesty.

[anne gets slowly to her feet, a little dazed, then faces the king]

You have not yet understood what I mean, I think. What I am trying to tell you is that you not only offer me nothing—you offer yourself nothing. You say you want a son, an heir to the throne. You need such an heir, and the kingdom needs him. But an heir must be legitimate—not baseborn—and while you are married to Katharine you can have only bastards. Fill me with as many sons as you like, you would still have no heir, and I would have—nothing. As for your music and your poetry and your love for me—you know I don’t love you. You’ve given me good reason not to love you.

Would you marry me if I were free of Katharine?

You can’t get free of Katharine. You know that. And I know it.

But if I were free of her, and free to marry you, and would make you queen of England, would you marry me?

[There is a long pause]

None of these things could be. Yes. If you’ll make me queen of England I will marry you.

Wolsey!

We can do many things, as you know, my sovereign. We can shake the thrones of the Emperor and of the King of France. We can sometimes get our way in Rome. But this we could not do. Try to divorce Katharine and you’ll have the whole world against you. You’ll be at war with all Europe.

Very well.

You knew you’d get this answer.

Yes. I knew it.

The king asks very little of you, Anne. Any other woman would give it readily.

Out of fear.

No.

Out of gratitude, then. But I’m not flattered, and I’m not afraid. If he will marry me and make me queen of England I will give him boys in plenty. But I will take nothing less.

It’s true that I go through life

dragging a sick woman—cold and sick—

blotched and middle-aged—and fanatic—

who can give neither pleasure nor a living son.

I have worked at that long enough, I think. I know

what can come from that bed.

There never was much need for the hair shirt

she wears next her skin. And none now.

Any son of the king could be made legitimate—

could be made the heir.

Yes. It’s true.

Your Majesty

already has a natural son. Have you made him the heir?

Is he legitimate?

He’s made Duke of Richmond.

Could the Duke of Richmond inherit the throne?

He may. It could be. The lad’s not well.

Not like to live.

But he would come first, shall we say? And then Mary’s child.

It happens that any baseborn son I might have

would be younger than Mary’s. Her child would come before mine.

My entry would be third.

Now we

are affectionate sisters, Mary and I.

We forgive each other

the little things that sisters must forgive.

Yet she would rather her son sat on the throne

than mine.

I’d rather mine than hers.

I’d rather have no son than a son baseborn.

I shall rid myself of Katharine.

I shall make this girl queen.

I shall settle the question of the succession

once for all!

Oh, my lord, I beg you,

as your faithful servant, I beg you,

don’t promise this now.

It may mean your death—or the loss of your kingdom—

Or her death.

You are not yourself. This is not a small error.

It—

I shall make this girl queen.

She’s never said she loved you!

I shall make her queen.

If it breaks the earth in two like an apple

and flings the halves into the void,

I shall make her queen.

[The lights go out]

Act One

EPILOGUE

A center of light comes up on Anne at stage right, in the furred gown of the Prologue, the barred window behind her.

He knew very well I’d love him

when once he’d made me his. And so it was.

This is the night on which he made me his—

the night I write here.

After that night I loved him more and more

and hated him less and less—

and I was lost.

[The lights dim down]

CURTAIN

Act Two

PROLOGUE

This is hard to do—

when you come to put pen on paper.

You say to yourself:

She must die. And she must—

if things are to go as planned.

Yes, if they are to go at all. If I am to rule

and keep my sanity and hold my England off the rocks.

It’s a lee shore—and a low tide—and the wind’s a gale—

and the Spanish rocks are bare and sharp.

Go back to it, Henry, go back to it.

Keep your mind

on this parchment you must sign.

Dip the pen in the ink; write your name.

[He dips the pen, draws the paper toward him, then lays down the pen]

You’ve condemned men, nobles and peasants.

She’s struck down a few herself—

or driven you to do it.

It’s only that a woman you’ve held in your arms

and longed for when she was away,

and suffered with her

and waited

for the outcome of her childbed—

No, but she promised me an heir.

Write it down.

Write Henry Rex and it’s done.

And then the headsman

will cry out suddenly, “Look, look there!”

[He points suddenly off stage]

and point to the first flash of sunrise,

and she’ll look,

not knowing what he means, and his sword will flash

in the flick of sun, through the little bones of her neck

as she looks away,

and it will be done.

What will it seem to men

I was like when I did this?

It will be written and studied.

The histories of kings are not secure.

The letters they have hidden, the secret ciphers

are unraveled and chuckled over.

“He loved her and he had her and he killed her,”

the books will say. The letters will be printed,

the stolen love letters where I played the fool

like a country boy to his milkmaid.

There’s a heart drawn

at the bottom of one, and in the heart “A. B.”

laboriously printed. “Henry Rex seeks

A. B., no other.”

[He prints the A. B. on the air with his finger]

  So the legend reads,

and will read so forever.

When she first refused me

I made off in a lash of anger and blood and spume—

a bull whale with the ocean at his prow—

“There’s a whole world of women with eyes and purse-string mouths

and legs and pockets! Let her keep empty!”

But the harpoon had sunk deep, and it tugged me in,

and I came again—and took her—

and must have her.

And now I seek her death.

But she betrayed me. She has earned death.

Take the pen and write the name.

Let us pretend it’s not your name at all,

but the name of a just judge.

You prayed this morning. You were long on your knees.

God will not allow you to condemn unjustly.

If you write your name here it is just.

But then, this hesitation to write my name,

is that, too, from God?

If I question that I question my whole life and all I’ve done.

Well, I do question it. At times.

[He takes up the pen]

Could she have betrayed me?

I think, as I loved her less she loved me more.

Even in anger could she have betrayed me?

[The lights dim down on Henry, coming up on stage right and center, though we still see the king as he watches the first scene]

Act Two

SCENE 1

This is a new game they play in Paris now.

Does it have a name?

They call it King’s Ransom. First we all ante a noble
[They ante]
and then I deal four cards to each player, including myself. Face up, thus.
[He deals]

Then, when all have four cards showing, the eldest hand—that’s you, darling—bets that she can beat the next card in the deck with one of her own. You can bet any part of the money on the table—or all of it—or nothing.

I must beat it in the same suit?

You must.

But I have only one suit here, all clubs, and no court cards.

Oh—your chances are very bad. You shouldn’t bet at all.

I thought so. I retire.

[She picks up her cards]

I’m afraid this is not a game for wise men.

But you can play, my dear.

Touché. I’ll risk one noble.

[norris turns up a card]

Seven of diamonds. You win. You have the nine there.

So I do.

Here’s your noble.

I’ll bet what’s on the table.

Ah, you have four kings. You couldn’t possibly lose.
[He turns up a card]
And you don’t.

Is there no way I could bet more?

None, alas. It’s the chances of war. Like Alexander, you can’t win more than there is at stake.

Do you need money, Jane?

No, I’m even so far.

[norris pushes the money toward Anne]

Another gold noble, please. All round.

[They ante]

I ask because the king’s treasury stands behind you tonight.

Why does it, sir?

Because you are sitting in the king’s chair. Whoever plays in the king’s place may draw on the resources of the king. I have known an earl to lose a thousand pounds in that seat, and walk away paying nothing because the king’s treasury paid.

But if he had won?

Oh, what you win you keep.

Now, that’s the way to live.

Aye. That’s the arrangement I’d like to have with my bankers.

How men love injustice.

Don’t they? They know what would happen to them if they got what they earned.

Do you love justice, Sir Thomas?

Now where would I have seen it?
[Henry is seen standing at the entrance, listening]
Still, men do seem to get what they deserve—in a rough way—over a long period.

You think so, truly?

Well, it’s my guess. There’s no proving it. Nobody’s ever made up the accounts. Think of the accounting system they’d have to have in heaven to reckon our follies and sins and good deeds, and decide what we should get. Think of the decisions they’d have to make—and revise. And reverse. Think of the good deeds that turned out badly—and of the murders that turned out to be a good thing. Yet—on the whole—it’s my guess that what should come to a man does come to him.

Or to a woman.

They’re not exempt.

I wonder who makes these intricate calculations. For example, I slapped my wife last Thursday. Now I thought it was good for her. I think she thought it was bad for her. Anyway, she gave me a black mark for it. But suppose it definitely improved her character? What mark would heaven give me for it?

Think what it did to your character.

That’s another complication. It may have been bad for my moral structure to slap my wife. But suppose it was good for her? Am I then a martyr, having sacrificed myself, and acquired a black mark, in order to make her a better woman?

There must be a machine up above that computes these things, and filters them automatically—and keeps the score.

But who built it? And suppose it gets out of order?

It’s out of order all the time. I know. I’ve been watching it these many years.

There may have been an error in it from the beginning.

But somehow we came here. Somehow we are as we are.

We’re not as you made us in Utopia.

I hope God’s happy in heaven. And got what he wanted.

It’s your play, Norris.

I’ll stay out of it. I’ve nothing here. Turn in your hands and Jane will shuffle and deal.

[They throw in their cards. sir thomas wyatt comes in from stage right]

Ah—now we have another Sir Thomas—and the evening grows more and more literary!

Take my chair, Wyatt. I don’t half like this game.

Let’s break it up. Tommy promised to bring a poem if it was finished—and might even read it for us. Won’t you?

It’s the usual thing. After you’ve written a poem, you read it. And then, if you’re a man of sense, you run for your life. Any other poets present?

Only a plodding prose writer, friend.

They’re the worst, of course. They hold all prose superior to all verse.

True. And make no distinctions. Read your bad verses, man.

My bad verses?

All verse is bad. Its intention is to mislead.

Is this a quarrel?

Oh, an ancient one, my dear. A quarrel to the death, but unimportant. Only writers involved.

[Rising] I feel very foolish saying this to wise and learned men, but one thing we must not forget here in the court. It’s the things we say and do here that set the pace for what is said and done in England. If Sir Thomas More is honored at court for his Utopia, then he is honored through England. If Sir Thomas Wyatt’s verses are read at court, then through England men will want to read them—and it will be, well, honorable to write verses. And we should be aware of this—

But not too much aware—

Lest the verses should not be good.

Do I speak too much like a queen? I am not queen yet, as you know, and yet if I am not queen there is no queen in England—for Katharine says nothing, is never sure—and the things a queen should do are not done.

If you are hoping for a renaissance of letters—and of the spirit—in our England, my dear Nan, I fear you’re ahead of your time. Men are always hoping for that kind of thing—and how often does it happen? Well—it happened once, in Greece, as everybody knows, and a sort of substitute renaissance happened in Rome later on. But that’s all. The rest is darkness through all Europe, through all later time. I hardly think we shall roll it back with our few books and sonnets.

But you write your books.

I write them. I hope for no great upswing—till all men are free—and changed.

Still, I’d like to hear the poem.

Yes, Tommy.

Only if it’s unanimous.

It’s unanimous, lad. I know nothing about poetry, but I’ll sit quiet and make the proper faces.

No excuse—no haw, no hem—no hanging back. Sit in the light here and read.

Here I sit, and here I read:

They flee from me that sometime did me seek,

  With naked foot stalking within my chamber:

Once I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

  That now are wild, and do not once remember

That sometime they have put themselves in danger

To take bread at my hand; and now they range,

  Busily seeking in continual change.

Is this about birds or women?

Hush!

It’s about his women, son. Nobody has that much bellyache over birds.

The advantage of poetry is that nobody knows what it means.

Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise,

  Twenty times better; but once especial,

In thin array, after a pleasant guise,

  When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall,

And she me caught in her arms long and small,

And therewithal so sweetly did me kiss,

  And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”

Yes, he’s had his troubles with human females.

In the interests of the renaissance I continue.

It was no dream; for I lay broad awaking:

  But all is turned now, through my gentleness,

Into a bitter fashion of forsaking;

  And I have leave to go of her goodness;

And she also to use new-fangleness.

But since that I unkindly am so served,

  “How like you this?”—What hath she now deserved?

We were talking about that before you came in—about what people deserve, and whether they get it. Always, never, or sometimes.

[Speaking out of half-darkness] All three, I think. Some get it always, some get it never, some get it sometimes.
[The court rises and bows]
Sit, sit, bend no more, either at the half or the quarter or the three-quarters. Relax necks, knees, and middles, and, if you’ll be more comfortable, unbutton. I’m unbuttoning my own doublet right now. That last portion—well, probably what I feel now is my just desert. . . . Did nobody understand that?

We were being very quiet and respectful, my good lord.

You were indeed. What’s in the air tonight?

Henry Norris has taught us a new card game from Paris and Sir Thomas Wyatt has read us a poem about women.

His women.

I gathered they’re not his women any more.

[Sitting] You’ll forgive me for this, I know—I listened for a few moments before I entered. I said to myself, “Let me hear what my court’s like when I’m not there.” I listened to you all. And I believe we have now in England what no king of this island has ever had before, a beginning of those things that take a nation upstream to greatness. Quick minds, critical, witty, and yet willing to say, “Yes, this is good,” when something good flashes out. A philosopher who has some fun in him, and a poet who can write lines that catch at the heart. We have not had this before. We have had a dull court. Religious and dutiful and dull. And the change has come with this my Nan, who stands embarrassed before you, and wants to quiet me. Come and quiet me with a kiss on the mouth, Nan, for you’ve brought me a nest of singing birds here, and for the first time I begin to believe I may go down as a great king, after a great reign, and over a great nation. Since you don’t come to kiss me I go to kiss you.
[He does so]
This is what I’ve always wanted, you know, to feel a stirring of minds about me, to feel that my age will not go back into death without leaving a little something for men to recollect. . . . I wish I could spend my time here, and not with legates and ambassadors and politicians, good and bad. I’ve been with such a set all day, and all year, and the years before—and as if that were not enough here comes another set of them, and I must send away these larks my lover has gathered and go back to the quarrel among rats and hogs.
[wolsey and cromwell appear in the half-light]
Come in, gentlemen. Come in, my good Cardinal, you who labor while I sleep. The May flies are about to depart and we must go to work.
[A general exodus begins, to make way for the business session]
Wyatt, it’s good poetry. It will need more than one reading.

Then I’m afraid it needs another writing.

[He goes]

Maybe, maybe. Try it, try it. More, it’s more than four years since we sat on the palace roof together and considered the motions of the stars.

They haven’t changed much, Your Majesty.

[He follows Wyatt]

That’s the saddest subject I know, astronomy. But very good for kings. It teaches them that kings and subjects are no different.

It’s a lie, Majesty. The kings can coin money and the subjects can’t.

Under heaven that means nothing, Norfolk.

Over hell it means a good deal. And I’m old enough to feel pretty close to hell. And I resent the king coining money when I can’t! Especially when he cuts down the silver by half, and doubles the number of shillings in a pound!

[He goes]

You know, he has hold of something there. It was not quite honest, but I needed the money and I had to do it.

Good night, my lord.

Good night, my treasurer. Here’s one man who knows how desperately I had to do it. Good night, good night.

[The last of the courtiers go, leaving only Henry, Anne, Wolsey and Cromwell]

I’ll leave you two to conspire.

Stay, my dear, stay. Help me with whatever it is.

What I have to say is for Your Majesty’s private ear.

I have no private ear—not from Nan.

[Shifting quickly] To be frank, it could go till tomorrow. I’m sorry I interrupted. Shall we call the court back?

Come, come, what barrel of herrings is this you don’t want to broach before Nan?

My king, let us have the poets again—

On pain of my displeasure—what did you come here to say?

[After a moment’s hesitation] For the preservation of your good fortune—and that of England—I must endure your displeasure.

[Angry] It has been your habit lately to slight my wife and overlook her presence and counsel! Speak now—and before her!

Why, if I must, I shall. Our messenger returned from Rome today. We have the last word from that quarter.

Oh?

And not one we can welcome.

What is it?

The Pope will not annul your marriage to Katharine.

But he must.

He will not. He makes it quite definite and final.

But what reason can he give?

The reason he gives is unimportant. The true reason is that he is a prisoner, and cannot grant it.

What kind of prisoner?

An actual one. He was just about to annul your marriage to Katharine. He had quite sufficient ground for it—she was your brother’s widow, and that’s enough. But now the Emperor Charles has invaded Italy and captured the Vatican. He can give orders there and does. And the Emperor Charles is Katharine’s nephew, and he doesn’t want his aunt divorced from you. Pope Clement has been forbidden to favor us in the matter.

How do you know this?

From my agents in Rome. . . . Times will change, of course. There will be another pope; there will be another emperor. But there can be no divorce this year.

There must be a divorce this year. Nan is with child—and her child must be heir to the throne.

I warned you when you first contemplated this marriage—

It was you who came first to me, demanding me for King Henry!

There was no thought of marriage at that time.

You are a man of the church! You speak for the church!

I am King Henry’s minister. I speak for what can be done. I speak against what cannot.

You will somehow get this divorce for me.

My king, you and I have worked together on this. We’ve tried everything we could lay hands or wits on. [To Anne] For two years, Lady Anne, step by step, with patience and cunning and the best skill there is about us, we have tried to bring about the divorce from Katharine. Henry went to her and asked directly for it. He told her, which is true, that from the beginning he and she had been living in mortal sin. She refused him. As for me, I have marshaled cardinals and bishops like storm troops to assail the Pope’s position. I have tried from every angle, from every direction, with money, influence, and temporal power. I have run my head against this wall like a bull in a stone barn—till there’s blood dripping in my eyes and I’m worn out. And when we were about to win—when the wall was crumbling and going down before us—the Emperor broke into Italy and made the church his vassal. In that situation I’m powerless. And so is Henry.

What are we to do?

Live as you were. Live as you are. Wait.

Children don’t wait for these changes among the dynasties. They come at their own time, convenient or inconvenient. They don’t wait.

I know no other answer. Am I dismissed, my lord?

Yes.
[wolsey and cromwell bow and go out stage right]
I hoped to win suddenly and have good news for you some morning, but it hasn’t come. This comes instead. . . . Am I forgiven, Nan?

[He puts his hand over hers]

Is anything ever forgiven?

Is that your answer?

How do I know what you’ve agreed with Wolsey? In all your pacts with kings and princes of the whole earth, I’ve never known you to tell the truth—never!

But I’ve told it to you!

I thought you had. I’ve tried to take the place you wanted me to take—and do what must be done—because I had promised, and you had promised. But what I feared has come about—

[henry leaps to his feet]

God in Heaven damn this spotted bitch! To be called a liar by my own bitch! Damn you!

I’ve heard you lie to too many. You’ve never yet told truth when a lie would serve! And we had a bargain, remember. I said, “If you will make me queen I will marry you!” But our marriage was at night and in secret; the church does not hold it valid; I am not the queen, and my child will not inherit the throne! Was this planned? It’s like many plans I’ve known you to make!

I’ll strangle you yet! I’ll make an end of you!

No doubt.

You’ve lied at times! And to me! What’s all this sudden passion about lying?

I could have said, “I love you, I love you, I love you!” I didn’t say it. Because I don’t. And whether you love me I don’t know. You’ve been unfaithful to me often enough—and I’ve known where and with whom!

If I have you’ve spoiled it for me, with your damned mocking face watching me through the walls! You spoil everything for me! Faithful—what kind of faith do you want of me? To be impotent in every bed but yours? Well, that’s happened, too! They’ve laughed at me in their beds—more than one. Laughed at their king—and he impotent—with all but you! It’s as if you were a disease in me—so that I’m in a fever when you’re with me and a fever when you’re absent—and it grows worse with the years that should burn it out! What more can I give, in faith or anything I have?

What you promised! What you gave your pledged word to do?

[Gently] Anne—I have tried. Not always the right way, perhaps, but my best.

You see—if I have a child before this divorce is granted—well, you are still as you are, untouched, but I’m not.

I know, Anne. And it’s unfair. But it’s not what I meant. I meant it all quite honestly—quite as I said. I like what you’ve done with the court. I want you for my queen. I’ve lied to all the others, but not to you. . . . Why must she anger me? Why am I tied to this alabaster face and this pinched-up mouth and these slanted eyes?

[A shadow moves at stage right and Cromwell’s voice is heard]

May I come in, Your Majesty?

[Angry] Who is it? Who disturbs me here?

I am the lord Cardinal’s secretary, Your Majesty. My name is Cromwell.

Stay out! No—come in.
[cromwell approaches]
You were just here.

Yes, Majesty.

[He bows]

Well, what do you want? Has the Cardinal forgotten something?

He forgets nothing, my liege, except his duty to his king.

I’m in no mood for riddles.

I mean that Your Majesty may have your divorce, and the Lady Anne be crowned queen, and the child to come made heir apparent very simply. It needs only the will to do it.

Whose will?

The Cardinal’s. He has something else in mind. He’s playing his hand to get himself made pope in Rome. He’s not thinking of you or your divorce.

You have been dismissed once—now once again!

What makes you say this?

I know it.

I’ve worked with Wolsey. This man is mad or fanatic—

If the Pope will not grant the divorce—and can’t grant it—how can any of these things you say be done?

Forgive me, Your Majesty. I am not a fanatic, not a madman. All my life I have been an earnest student at the inns of court. I have read the laws of England, something which few seem to have bothered to do. There is a law of this land that makes it treason to acknowledge any higher authority than the will of the king. The church in England must grant the king a divorce if he wishes it. To maintain that the Pope may govern the king in such a matter—or in any matter—is traitorous and punishable by death. Say this to Cardinal Wolsey. He will turn white to the roots of his beard. For he too knows of this law. . . . To bring about all these things you wish, the king has only to appoint a new primate who will legalize his divorce and a new marriage.

That would mean excommunication and a complete break with Rome. If there is such a law.

Yes, Majesty. But there is such a law. Of that you may be sure. It is called the law of praemunire.

I have always been a defender of the faith. And of the church. That is my greatest strength with my people. I can’t change there.

Allow me to say a word on that subject, Your Grace. As matters stand you are but half a king. We are only half-subject to you. If you were truly king in England could a foreign prelate call you to account? England is only half-free. You are only half-free. What the king of England wants he should have, without hindrance from abroad.

[Dryly] I fear such independence might be purchased very dearly.

Dearly? You have sometimes found yourself in need of money, Your Majesty.

Well?

At one stroke you could obtain your divorce and make yourself the wealthiest monarch in Europe. The monasteries of England are richer than the gold mines of the new world. Quarrel with Rome, set yourself at the head of the English church, and these riches are yours.

You are a man without scruple, Master Cromwell.

Entirely without scruple, Your Majesty. I have learned my trade, as you know, under Cardinal Wolsey. For your information I have brought with me a list of the church properties which the Cardinal has already condemned for his own use. And an itemized history of how and where he obtained the furnishings for his palace at York—as well as the titles to the estate. Cardinal Wolsey is a richer man than you, Your Majesty.

For the third time, you are dismissed, Master Cromwell. . . . But I shall be able to find you if I need you?

Yes, Your Majesty.

I should like to see those papers.

[Smiling grimly] Yes, Your Majesty.

[He hands the papers to Anne and goes]

[After a pause] Do you think he tells the truth?

There would be little point in his coming to us unless he told the truth.

Is there such a law?

I’ve never heard of it, but he convinces me there is.

[Who has the papers before her] The Cardinal seems to have stolen an immense amount of money.

Doubtless.
[He rises, pondering]
Doubtless he stole more than I knew. Though I’m not exactly innocent in the matter. We sometimes went halves.

Are you also a pupil of the Cardinal’s?

I am the son of Henry the Seventh. I studied under a real master—my father. Whatever crookedness was lacking in the world when my father was born he invented before he left it. No other king of our island ever stole so widely, so successfully, so secretly—or died so rich. And the central principle he taught me was this: always keep the church on your side.

Then he didn’t steal from the church?

Oh, yes. He stole from everybody. But not enough to turn it against him. I’ve stolen from the church too. But not enough to turn it against me. So far.

If this law exists—you could have the divorce, we could be married legally—and you could be richer than your father.

I’m thinking of just that.
[He takes a turn or two up and down as he speaks]
And of my father’s advice. And they pull me two ways. . . . I’m your prisoner, Nan. Little as I like it, I’m your prisoner, and I mean to make you my queen. You’ve never told me you loved me. But if you were my queen—it would happen. You would say it and it would be true. . . . And now a hatch opens. As if in the floor. It may be I could make you my queen at once. And make myself wealthy beyond hope—but I’d have to make the church my enemy.

And you love me—not quite enough.

Suppose I set out to make myself head of the church. I shall be opposed by many who are now my friends. They will be guilty of treason and I shall have to kill them. Those whom I like best—those who have some integrity of mind—will speak first against me. They must die. Parliament and the nation can then be bludgeoned into silence—but a lot of blood will run before they’re quiet. Most of my people will hate me—and even more will hate you. Yes, I can make my Nan queen—but we must consider the price. In how much we dare be hated. Are we willing to pay it?

I am.

You are new at this work, of course. You don’t know quite what it means. To see blood run. If you knew, I wonder if you’d still wish it.

I am with child.

[henry comes back to his chair]

The altar at St. Paul’s will stand ankle-deep in blood. The shopkeepers will mop blood from their floors. . . . But it must be done if we’re to marry. Well, so be it.

Must so many die?

Many must die. And it will look as if I had done this for money. Like my father.

He killed for money?

It was his main source of income—to attaint a well-lined noble for treason, do away with him, and take what he had. It brought in millions. I’ve been trying not to think of that.

Don’t think of it.

It will bring in the money anyway. And—the money would be useful. If only you could love me a little—no, not a little—with your whole heart . . . then—it wouldn’t matter what happened—or what’s thought of me.

[Putting out her hand] Sometimes—no. If you were ever honest—if you were ever true. . .

[Taking her hand] Yes?

But you never are.

[The lights go out]

Act Two

SCENE 2

Long live the new queen! Long live Queen Anne!

Long live Queen Katharine! Long live—

Down with him! He took foreign money! Long live Queen Anne!

It seems to me the shouting for Queen Anne was somewhat sparse along the streets—not what you’d expect for a royal wedding and a coronation. You should have paid them a bit and we’d have heard something really spontaneous.

They were paid.

How many of them?

A thousand apprentices.

How much were they paid?

One groat each.

A groat? Man, that won’t buy a whole drink of good liquor! They should have had a silver penny apiece and they’d have shaken the foundations! They’d have rung the bells! They’d have jumped out of windows! Anyway, they’d have thrown their caps in the air! The rabble I saw must have had the mange. Their headgear was stuck tight on their skulls and when they yelled it was more like a growl.

For a half-crown each, or a whole one, they wouldn’t cheer Queen Anne—not as they’d like to be cheering Queen Katharine.

Why man, have you lost faith in money? And in King Henry? They’ll go along with Henry in time. Give him a few years and he’ll make them love this queen as much as the first.

Those that were yelling loudest were calling her a whore.

Those were paid, too, Cromwell. Those were paid, too—and probably more. By the Spanish ambassador. Or by our friend Wolsey. I’m pretty sure they were paid more than you paid, because what they shouted came straight from the heart.

[The cheering begins again]

God save Queen Anne!

[henry and anne enter from the right and pause to listen to the cheering]

Wasn’t it rather flimsy applause?

Nonsense, Your Majesty. It was what you always get in London when the folk are truly moved. It goes too deep for noise. They just stand there and weep.

Uncle, uncle, you’re an unprincipled old sinner. There were no tears. They didn’t even bother to uncover.

Let’s be thankful for the friends we have, my dear. Will you be happy here?

I’ve never known there was anything so perfect in England.

There isn’t, anywhere else. This must have been his library.

Yes, it was. He worked in this room.

And so, will you be happy?

Who else will live here?

Only you.

There’s room for so many.

There’ll be no apartment here for anyone save you. Not even for me unless you ask me.

I’ve never had a place that was mine.

There’s someone here.

[The lights come up a little at stage right, and we see an old man bowed over papers at a table. He looks up. It is Cardinal Wolsey, much changed]

Ah, forgive me. Go on with whatever you have in hand, you young people. I’m only finishing an inventory for the new owner.

His Majesty waits for you to rise, Cardinal Wolsey.

You must forgive me. I can rise only with assistance. My legs are not for dancing, any more. But the inventory’s ready, and now I write my name.

[He writes]

I’m afraid we disturb you here.

It’s better that you should. The palace is much too beautiful for an old man. It needs youth in it. Here’s the paper. I’m sorry that I can’t rise and bring it to you—or kneel before you. I can only reach it out.

[Going to him] I’ve been your enemy—but I can’t take it from you.

Take it. Take it. My life is broke square in two. I have no use for it now, and you have. So take it.
[She doesn’t put out her hand]
Or I’ll leave it here.
[He lays the paper down] It’s yours.

We thought you had left for Esher.

It was my intention to be gone when you came, my lord, but some friends of mine were here, and they wished to see you, and they persuaded me to stay.

Some friends of yours?

And of yours. Sir Thomas More, Bishop Fisher, and John Houghton, Prior to the Charter House in London.

They are here?

Yes. Will you see them?

We thought to escape conferences this one day, but
[He looks at Anne]
kings and queens are never excused. Let them come in.
[wolsey claps his hands and three men enter from stage right. Henry welcomes them as they come in]
Welcome, Sir Thomas More! Welcome, Bishop of Rochester! Welcome, Prior John Houghton! I know what you come to say, but welcome!

It’s good of you to see us, Your Majesty.

Make it plural, More. Our Majesties are both seeing you. We have come from the coronation.

It’s about that we wish to speak, my lord. But Bishop Fisher is the eldest and most learned among us. I ask him to speak first.

I have known you from a child, King Henry. I was present when you took your first three steps. You know I would not willingly say any word unpleasing to you. I have not opposed your divorce. I have not opposed your new marriage or the coronation of Queen Anne. Such things are sometimes necessary in the conduct of a state. But you also ask that every religious in England swear fealty to you as spiritual head of the church. And I cannot accept your guidance in spiritual matters.

But if I were not head of your church there could be no divorce and no marriage to Anne. Anne could not be crowned. Her child could not succeed me.

I know that. And still I cannot accept you as my spiritual guide.

Do you accept the church of Rome?

Yes.

Is the Pope moved by spiritual considerations?

Your Majesty, I accept the spiritual authority of the church. I cannot accept your usurpation of that authority.

Then—though I’m very sorry to lose my friend—I’m afraid you are guilty of treason and will die for it.

If it were only I, my king, it wouldn’t matter. But there are thousands of my order and of similar orders who cannot take this oath. Must they all die?

If they wish to die, they may. If they insist, they will.

And I’ll tell you why!

You have no right to question me, but I’ll answer!

I had no mind to cut adrift from Rome

when this thing started. But I was driven to it—by Rome—

and now the cable’s cut, and we’re adrift

unless we anchor to something! Church and all,

we’re adrift! And I see no anchor but the king,

and it happens I’m the king!

John Houghton, why are you here?

I could sign everything that’s asked, Your Majesty,

except the act that constitutes the king

head of the church I serve.

You will sign it or die.

Then all my Charter House dies with me.

Have you not seen I have no alternative?

Rome denies my divorce. If I go and take it

I deny Rome’s authority, and set up

an authority of my own! It’s Rome or the king!

I had to choose—and now you must! Sir Thomas?

I have watched you govern for many years, King Henry.

It’s a tyranny—and not a tyranny.

I thank you.

You keep no standing army. You use your power

unjustly, illegally often, but your way

is never to go beyond what the people’s will

supports—or will support. You’re very shrewd

in judging what you dare do. It’s as if you had

an extra sense—the king’s finger—and you kept it

on the pulse of your subjects—on your whole kingdom—

and knew—before they knew—where they were going—

and how far in the year. Only this time

I don’t follow you at all. How can you hope

your people will go with you when you rob

their mother church, devour her children, slip

your cuckoo eggs into the nest, and ask

that we sit and say nothing’s happened?

You’re a great man,

Sir Thomas More, but it may be there’s some truth

in that about the king’s finger. They’ll go with me.

The people will.

Tell me why.

It’s—they don’t like Rome.

They want to be free of Rome. They’ll take me rather

than some foreigner overseas. This wasn’t true

ten years ago. It’s beginning to be true

only now. This year.

It may be true. I don’t know.

I’ve known these things to happen before with you.

Not quite like this. Not on this scale.

It will happen. Must you still

refuse to sign?

I must follow my own conscience.

I have no king’s finger. I can’t sign.

And I can’t.

Nor I, my lord.

I’m very sorry.

We may go?

Yes, gentlemen. You move away from this world of your own will.

Your Majesty, it will go on without us.

No doubt of that. Farewell, then. Go with them, Norfolk.

Yes, Majesty.

[more, houghton, and fisher bow and go out stage right, accompanied by norfolk]

Tom, will you help me up?

Yes, sir.

[He helps Wolsey to his feet]

Good-by, Your Majesties.

Good-by, Wolsey.

[Low] Good-by.

[cromwell helps wolsey out stage right]

And that answers the last of them that dare speak. The rest will die silent. [He turns to her] Anne?

Yes.

Now I’ve done all you asked of me.

all you asked

when we first danced together.

And more.

For you said nothing about a place of your own

back there at our beginning.

Yes. You’ve done more.

I think there’s never been

in all this world

a king who gave so much to find his way

to the heart of her he loved.

Over many years,

winter and summer, I have fought and chopped

and hacked and stabbed my path through the jungle of laws

and events and churchly rules—

and the flesh of friends—

to come to this day.

To come to this day when I can say it’s done,

and I have earned her love.

For all these days,

Sweet, we have lain together, and kissed and drawn

apart from the world into a world of our own,

but not once, not once have you said,

“I love you.”

Surely now—surely

my Nan will say it now?

[After a pause] Yes, I do love you.

So.

Then that’s not it. Not what I wanted.

What did you want, my lord?

Why—I don’t know.

Only—I still don’t have you. You’re not mine.

Is it something I could say?

Why, yes, I think it is, if you wished to say it.

But you don’t. Perhaps it’s better.

Let it go. Let us look at the palace.

Yes, let us look at York Place—

and find your rooms for you.

You’ll want me here?

Yes.

You’re sure?

Yes.

Nan?

My lord?

Did someone say to you—sometime—

“Never be all his,

never melt to him—never forget to hate him

at least a little—for that way you’ll lose him”?

I’ve said it to myself.

Do you say it now?

Yes.

I see. That’s what I feel. That you’re never mine.

Isn’t it better so?

Because you might lose me?

No—don’t answer that. Let’s look at the rooms.

Yes.

And yet . . .

I think I’m not as I was.

I think I’ve earned your heart—all your heart—

over these years.

Yet keep it if you wish.

Only—Nan, Nan,

last night while I lay thinking of you,

and couldn’t sleep, and cursed myself for not sleeping,

I found myself writing the words of a lyric,

a little poem,

and trying the music for it in my mind.

It was a poem that grew from three words I heard

once, from this same Sir Thomas More who must die,

three words, “Always, never, sometimes.”

I rose and wrote the poem down, and the music,

and as I wrote I said to myself:

“Do I mean what is said by this music,

or by these words?”

And now I ask myself, “Do I mean them now?”

Here I stand, a king, with the woman I love,

planning murder for her sake,

planning to rob, lost in a copse of lies,

sweating, falling over boulders,

without a star. It’s a king’s life. A king lives so.

Yet the music I wrote and remember says something simple and sweet

and the words are undressed truth.

Something within me drove me to write them

out of the undergrowth of sweat and lies,

looking for a star. It’s that way always.

I haven’t meant to do ill.

I’ve meant to do well.

I have known that good was better than evil,

when I’ve known which was evil, which was good,

but what test is there—what star, what beacon of fire?

Is it the church, held in thrall?

Is it the Christ?

Withdraw your guards,

make no wars,

strike no man down who strikes you,

and how long will you be there, you or your nation?

I found it better to let all that go and write a lyric with music,

writing to one I loved, a bitch who does not love me,

but writing truly, thus, out of myself:

Waking at night, I go to my window,

  Scanning the stars in a portion of sky,

Fixing on one that hangs yonder—and over

  The street of the house where you lie.

  If you sleep, do you dream,

  If you dream, is it of me?

The clock strikes; I hear your voice in the chimes,

    Repeating your words

    When I ask if you love me:

      “Always, never, sometimes.”

I didn’t say it.

No, Sir Thomas More said it. But you might have.

Writing’s like that. You never write down what happened.

But what you write comes closer to what’s true

than what did happen, or was said.

I love you.

Nan!

I love you. Now I know. I love you.

I think you mean this.

I’ve said it, and it’s true.

These men who were to die, Henry—

Sir Thomas More

and all the others—they must live.

That was all done for you, sweet.

Yes, but we must let them live.

Our marriage may not be valid,

nor my divorce from Katharine,

nor the succession to your issue,

if they refuse to swear, and live—

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter about the divorce—or the marriage—

or having this palace. Let them swear or not swear

as they like. Let Katharine keep her throne, and Mary

inherit. You love me, and I love you,

and I can say it.

Why can you say it?

Because of the poem—

and the things you put in it—

and the things you are—

when we speak, and are close together.

I’ve been afraid to say it, afraid to be it,

but now—

Let it come, whatever it brings. I’m deep in love.

With one I hated.

Who took me anyway. Took me from my first love.

With you.

I thought you’d never say it.

Oh, if it’s true, and you’ll lie in my arms and love me,

then I can be the king you’ve wished me to be,

the king I’ve wished to be,

just, generous, magnanimous to enemies,

royal enough to treat all men royally,

only I’ll need you to help me.

If I can.

It’s not because of the palace?

Never a fair woman but loved silks

and oriel windows and coronets.

No, dear, it’s you,

and hearing your thoughts,

and being close to you,

and thinking of the men that must not die.

Then it’s a new age. Gold

or some choicer metal—or no metal at all,

but exaltation, darling. Wildfire in the air,

wildfire in the blood!

Have you room in your heart for much loving?

All you have.

For now you’ll have no rest.

I want none. Here.

[She opens her arms. He kisses her and they stand embraced]

I was a pirate till I met you, Nan.

No girl could call me hers,

her minion.

But I’m yours.

Is it some trick of the way you turn your eyes

suddenly, and smile?

Sometimes I think it’s that.

Is it the triangle of eyes and mouth,

and the way they go together

like no others?

Is it your lips?

Let me see.

[He kisses her]

Now I think it’s your lips.

Or is it that little trill of speech you brought

from France—

hesitating over a word,

and bewitching it with a laugh?

Is it your brows?

[He kisses her brows]

Is it the delicacy of all you are,

the flower face,

and the minuscule breasts that I cup in my hands,

and the tiny dancing feet

like a figurine’s

but tireless to dance with?

Never mind my size—

I’ve been teased about it.

There’s one way to decide—

I’ll kiss you all, feet to crown—

and it won’t take long,

it’s not far to go!

Not now.

No, it’s because I was hard to get, King Henry.

But for whatever it was, I’m happy—

to have it as it pleases you.

And, as for you,

I know what it is about you.

What about me?

There’s everything in you.

Good and bad.

There’s so much in you, you hardly know who you are.

You’re a world. With one

you’re a man about courts, a fantastic,

with another

you’re an authority on religion,

monastic, grim, savage, learned,

then again

a pedant, running with ink, ink on your fingers,

ink in your hair—if you cut yourself you bleed ink.

With another a sportsman,

talking shafts, or deer, or pheasants,

or the habits of eels.

Then you’re a lover of old manuscripts

and libraries, an illuminator of Chaucer.

Or a despot, or a king, a magnifico. Sometimes.

Or a host, or a poet—

or a merry guest, or a dancer, or a devil.

God what a devil you can be!

You hardly know who you are.

I know with you.

But for all of these—

I kiss you. For the devil, too.

Kiss me for all of them,

for each one separately,

and then again, twice as many, for myself.

[She kisses him, lips, eyes, and brow. cromwell returns, stage right]

Forgive me, Your Majesty.

We’re reversing a policy, Cromwell.

The oath to the Act of Succession is not required.

Let them swear or not swear, as they please.

But, Your Majesty—there are men sentenced—many—

Lift the sentences. Go now, and leave us alone.

Yes, Majesties.

[He goes, stage right]

And now—it’s your palace.

I have no place here till I’m asked.

Then I ask it.

You won’t need an apartment here.

My place is yours.

Whatever I am is yours. Or what I have.

Put your arms round me.

Yes, sweet.

[He puts his arms round her]

I want to be yours only.

I have been yours only—these many years. And now,

for the first time—

[He kisses her. The lights go out]

you are mine, too.

Act Two

SCENE 3

What beautiful little hands! What a beautiful face!

I think I shall call her after you, mother.

Hush!

Well, he must know sooner or later. It may as well be soon.

The king’s at the door now, in case you wish to know.

He must come in, of course.

Not yet—not yet! Make some excuse. Not quite yet.

My dear, it’s her father—the king.

She is beautiful.

Yes, she is.

(At the door) It seems all’s ready, Your Majesty.

[henry enters and stands at the door, looking at the bed]

Nan, sweet—

Yes, Henry?

Do I come too soon? Will it tire you to speak?

No, Henry. I’m glad to see you.

[henry comes into the room, staring at the child]

I won’t say much. Nor stay long. I just want to look at you two—the most precious freight ever a bed carried. My queen—and my prince—my son.

My lord—

Hush. Rest, my dear, and get strong. I shall call him Edward. It’s been a lucky name for English kings. A lucky name and a great name. Oh, little lad, little lad, may you better them all for fortune and fair renown!

My lord, we—

All my life as a king I have asked only one thing of heaven—that it grant me a son to carry on what I leave. And now heaven has given me more than I asked, for this is a handsome, bold boy’s face, and already there’s wit behind those eyes—

Her name’s to be Elizabeth.

Whose—name?

We have a little daughter . . . and her name’s Elizabeth.

A daughter! Why did no one tell me?

They’re all afraid of you, my lord. I offered to go. What can he do to an old man, I said, beyond the usual disemboweling? But they said no, wait.

They were wrong. Whatever happens we must look our hap in the face. Why, girl, don’t look so down. If we can have a healthy girl together we can have a healthy boy together. We shall get one yet.

I’m sorry, Henry. As if it were my fault.

It’s no fault of anyone. There must be girls as well as boys. She has a sonsie sweet face. . . . I like her no less than I did—not a groat less. Get better, lass; eat well and get on your legs quickly. We’ll have a good life, we’ll let this beauty grow a foot or two, and then we’ll have our son—and so nothing’s lost. Norfolk, I’m off for the hunting. Come with me.

I, my lord?

Aye—come with me and talk treason! It amuses me! Nan, sweet, nurse the moppet and—remember me.

Yes, my lord.

Give me a kiss—

[He kisses her]

I’m off.

Will you kiss our little one, Henry?

When she’s a shade older, my dear—when she’s in petticoats,

and can run. Why, I’ll kiss her now!

[He does so]

Come, Duke—and be thinking of a jest for the road.

God keep all here—

[The lights go out]

Act Two

SCENE 4

There is a load every man lugs behind him,

heavy, invisible, sealed, concealed,

perfumed,

a package of dead things he drags along,

never opened

save to put in some horror of the mind—

some horror of his own doing—to seal up

and rot in secret. He pretends

there’s no such thing. He tries to walk

as if he had no burden. The stench is covered

with purchased scents and flowers.

The deeds in this bag,

man and king, he utterly cancels, denies, forgets,

for they would prove him an idiot,

criminal,

subhuman.

Yet they are his.

He did them, and put them there.

And they are mine.

I did them, and put them there.

All men have done the same—

or done the like. And will.

Have you done so much better,

you out there in the future,

you whom I see with the thousand eyes, looking back

on my secret ways?

If you have, then you’re young and unlucky—

it’s still to come.

Or else you’re old and unlucky—

it never was.

With kings as with men

there is the mask and tongue among your friends

with a ready smile and word,

and there is the hog behind the eyes, the rat

behind the tongue, the dog that runs before

and brings you after—

or lags, and holds you back.

And you obey them,

the hog, the rat, the dog.

Man, woman, and child, you have obeyed them always,

and I have. The carrion and the beast

decide where we shall love, and when leave off

to love another;

not our high purpose, our resolve, our brain,

but the vermin underneath,

the unacknowledged boar, the hidden wallow,

the invisible decay.

Whatever she did, I had done first.

For when I knew for the first time she was all mine,

then, having loved her many years,

suddenly I loved her only a little,

and could look at others.

And then I loved her not at all—

And her lips were an over-eaten plate,

and my body would not answer hers,

and when I felt my child move beneath her skin

I had no liking for it, and turned away.

Was this her blame or mine?

Or was there blame?

Act Two

SCENE 5

Yes?

It’s from the king, if it please you. Both these.

From—?

I’m to wait for an answer.

Is this a purse of gold?

I think it is, mistress.

I would not have the king think me ungrateful, but I have no need of gold, and no wish for it. And I think it would be better if I were not to know what is written here.

[She gives back letter and purse]

Am I to tell him this?

If you will.

[The lights go out on the scene]

Act Two

SCENE 6

What does he say about the bracer?

“In a bracer a man must take heed of three things: that it have no nails in it, that it have no buckles, that it be laced without aiglettes.”

These three every fool knows. What else?

Nothing.

Throw the book away!
[norfolk starts to hand the book to a servant]
Throw it, I said! Am I a king, or not a king?

How far am I to throw it, Your Grace? My arm is not what it was.

Keep it. Here’s a glum bird that portends no good.
[cromwell enters from stage left]
Portend, blackbird, portend.

I come to tell Your Majesty that you have perhaps left me in charge too long. The Commons and the Church are both out of hand. Nobody swears to the Act of Succession. It’s a matter of open debate whether Katharine or Anne is your queen, and whether Mary or Elizabeth shall succeed you.

I intend to reign another forty years. And to have sons. And not by Katharine or Anne. Not by Katharine or Anne! You hear! Let them fight it out.

Queen Anne has sent Jane Seymour away from court.

Where?

It’s not known where.

Has she harmed her?

That I don’t know. But Jane was sent away, guarded.

I must go.

[He starts to walk away with the bracer still on his arm, carrying a bow]

Your Majesty—shall I take this off?

Aye—tear it off—cut it off!
[He pauses, impatient]
No, leave it! I must go.

[He starts out, tossing the bow away, cromwell hurrying after him. The lights go out]

Act Two

SCENE 7

[Singing]

I had a little nut tree,

Nothing would it bear,

But a silver nutmeg,

And a golden pear.

[Going to Anne] Shall we dance to it?

Surely.

[During the next stanza they take a few steps together]

Hush! Don’t wake her.

[Singing]

The king of Spain’s daughter

Came to visit me,

And all for the sake

Of my little nut tree.

She’s asleep.

Whether to escape the singing or for delight in it, no man knows.

It was well sung. But you could keep the king of Spain’s daughter out of it, after this. I’ve had enough trouble with the king of Spain’s daughter.

Next time I will.

[norfolk appears at stage right]

The king’s here, my chicks.

The king of Spain?

[Entering behind Norfolk, with cromwell] No, lassie, the king of England.

I thought the king of Spain more likely.

Yes. We stayed long at our hunting.

The princess has grown. Would you care to look at her?

Indeed I would.
[norris and smeaton have bowed and retreated. henry looks into the cradle]
She looks like you.

And you.

And me. She’ll never be hung for her beauty.

I think she’s beautiful.

She gathers a court, I notice.
[He looks about]
We must see you for a moment, Cromwell and I.

Mother, will you take Elizabeth back to her room? Mark and Norris will carry the cradle.

Yes, dear.
[smeaton and norris carry the cradle off to stage right. elizabeth and madge follow]
Softly now.

I sang her to sleep. I’ll take care not to wake her.

[Speaks after they are gone. Henry, Anne, Cromwell, and Norfolk are on stage] Yes, King Henry, there was some question you wished to discuss with your queen?

Two gentlemen of my court,

Edward and Thomas Seymour, came to me

an hour or two ago, demanding of me

where they could find their sister.

Does this frighten you?

They are my friends.

I have especial cause

at this moment not to offend them.

Yes, I think so.

Where is Jane Seymour?

In Northumberland. And a very good place for her.

Her brothers have made it plain

that they resent the slur you cast on her

in sending her from court.

I don’t care for her.

She has the face of a sheep. And the manners.

But not the morals.

I don’t want her near me.

You will bring her back.

No, I think not.

If you want her near you, why, find a suite for her

in your own palace. This York place is mine.

You gave it to me for my own. And while

it’s mine, Jane Seymour must lie elsewhere.

Lassie—well—

Speak to her, Norfolk.

The truth is, girl, you’re on slippery ground.

More and more the common folk cry down your name.

There used to be a penalty for speaking against you.

There’s none now.

And the people take advantage of it,

in the church, in the government, wherever they meet.

You have no defenders.

Am I at the mercy of the people?

We’re all at the mercy of the people.

Sooner or later, what they want they’ll have,

unless you’re willing and able

to do unlimited murder on them.

I gave my voice for mercy.

It happens you stand for something they don’t want.

They’re for having the old queen back.

Speak to her, Cromwell.

If things go as they’re going

the Commons will revolt, Your Majesty.

The divorce will be invalidated,

and your marriage also.

We’ve slackened our hold, and the dogs are at our throats,

yours and mine! Not the king’s.

Why yours?

I’ve worked hard at suppressing monasteries

and squeezing money out of them.

You—and the king’s love for you—

have sliced off England from the mother church.

We shall never be forgiven, you or I.

Nor your child.

She will not rule. Not as things go now.

And so, my dear,

be a little less absolute in what you’ll have

and not have.

Jane Seymour will not couch here.

She will live here, among your women,

and you’ll accept her.

I’ve sent for her to come.

There are ways of making

a woman so unwelcome . . .

[She pauses]

No, she may come—

and we’ll make her welcome.

But More and Fisher and Houghton must not live,

and all who refuse to sign the Act of Succession

must die with them.

Elizabeth must succeed you. See to that

and Jane will be accepted here. We made

this bargain before. And some of it you’ve kept.

Now keep the rest.

This part I can’t keep.

These men are my friends.

By the year when I loved elsewhere,

but must have you because you were the king—

by the years when I loved no one

but bore your weight because the earth was empty—

by the year when I must carry your child

without loving you, because you were royal—

my child must be royal, too!

Let me off from this, Nan. I can’t kill these men.

You’ve killed before!

One learns a little. Never since Buckingham

have I touched a man in high place,

one I respected,

or whose death might become a symbol.

If you love me, Nan,

forget the succession.

I love you now.

I shall go to my grave loving you, no doubt,

and hating you.

But if you remember how it all came about,

and how your word’s dishonored,

how can you look in my eyes and say our daughter

will not succeed?

Because I cannot look on these deaths.

In all honesty!

Other deaths, but not these!

Could you sign these death warrants?

Oh, King of England, King of England,

you blind king!

I’d sign ten thousand to die

rather than warm that white-faced serpent you love

and disinherit my blood!

[Henry stands silent before her, then speaks slowly]

It would need unlimited murder, as Norfolk said.

Unlimited, pitiless murder. It would mean tearing

the world apart!

Look at me, Nan—you know me—

as I know myself.

Is it fitting I should be head of a church?

It’s laughable—it can’t be serious,

and yet it is. If I impose myself there

I’m king and they dare not answer,

and there I am—king and pope in one. To legalize a divorce,

and a child, and a marriage!

Our dead marriage.

But you will demand it, Henry, and take it!

Make yourself head of the church, stand by me as

my husband, and father Elizabeth, the heir!

And if it costs heads and blood and fires at Smithfield

let the blood run and the fires burn!

It’s that, or else it’s my blood, and Cromwell’s—

and Elizabeth’s.

Cromwell knows that, your butcher-cleaver man knows that!

Send him out to implement these deaths

and let it be done quickly,

let there be no mistaking,

no leniency, no mercy!

High or low, they will sign—or depart without entrails!

And you will keep your word to me, unloved

though I may be!

I wish I were loved, but I’m not,

and so I shall be queen of this island, and

Elizabeth shall be queen!

[A pause]

No.

But you’re beautiful when you’re angry.

Now if we had a son . . .

[He steps toward her]

Help me to prove that I can father kings—

What do you mean?

For Elizabeth, no.

For her I will not commit these murders.

But if we had a male heir . . .

[He steps closer to her]

Your son and mine—

I can be angrier than you’ve seen me yet,

and not beautiful!

I know where your heart is! It’s not with me!

What has the heart to do

with the getting of kings?

I am not young—I am not true—

I’m bitter and expert and aging and venomous—

not to be trusted.

It’s your misfortune that you love me

now that I no longer love you.

Yet at this moment I want you—because of your anger

and the flash of blood in your face—

and, if you give me a prince, things may change—

even I may change!

[He comes still closer]

No. Not unless you kill them—

More and Houghton and Fisher

and all who will not sign—

not unless Elizabeth is your heir.

[To Cromwell] Put them to death, then. Go out and do it.

[cromwell and norfolk go out]

See, now. I rob and murder at your order.

And commit sacrilege.

You do what you wish to do

and call it my deed.

[He puts his arms round her]

I hate you. I hate your desire.

And mine.

[She pulls away from him]

Things could change.

Even I. I loved you once.

I saw that fire in your face.

Give me a son.

[He takes her in his arms again. The lights go out. After a moment three violins are heard playing the air of a song somewhere in the darkness]

Act Two

SCENE 8

You’re late, sir—and we have much to do.

I have ill news.

What news?

The queen is brought to bed of a son, and it’s born dead.

[Not comprehending] A son. Born dead.

Yes.

I don’t trust you in this.

I didn’t trust anyone else. I went to see it. And it’s a son. And dead.

Leave me. I won’t work today.

Yes, master.

[He goes]

A son. Born dead. Like the sons of Katharine.

Born—and a son—but cursed with the curse of God

because I’ve had her sister—

or because . . .

well, for whatever reason,

it was dead.

Oh, my God, help me! What do you want of me?

Was this girl not to your mind? Not ever?

Or am I

not to your mind?

But I am the king, God’s chosen,

potent and virile. I am a man. The woman’s failed me.

I must look elsewhere.

[The lights fade. The music of the song plays again]

Act Two

SCENE 9

Sing the song tenderly—

no, you’re young, you wouldn’t know about tenderness.

Sing it lightly, softly, to the lady who sits reading.

[The lights come up on Jane Seymour, who sits with a book in hand. The singers go toward her]

Yes?

They are about to sing to you, Jane.

I thank Your Majesty.

Waking at night, I go to my window,

    Scanning the stars in a portion of sky,

Fixing on one that hangs yonder—and over

    The street of the house where you lie.

[anne boleyn enters, unseen by the others, and listens]

    If you sleep, do you dream,

    If you dream, is it of me?

The clock strikes; I hear your voice in the chimes,

        Repeating your words

        When I ask if you love me:

            “Always, never, sometimes.”

[As the song ends Henry catches sight of Anne in the shadow. She drops him a little mocking curtsy]

Come near me, Anne.

[She does so]

You think me happy, Anne, but I’m not happy.

Play out your play.

[She goes out]

Sing the song again.

[As the song begins the lights go out]

CURTAIN

Act Three

PROLOGUE

From the day he first made me his,

to the last day I made him mine,

yes,

let me set it down in numbers,

I who can count and reckon, and have the time.

Of all the days I was his and did not love him—

this; and this; and this many.

Of all the days I was his—

and he had ceased to love me—

this many; and this. In days.

[She writes]

It comes to a thousand days—

out of the years.

Strangely, just a thousand.

And of that thousand—

one—

when we were both in love. Only one

when our loves met, and overlapped and were both mine and his.

When I no longer hated him—

he began to hate me,

except for that day. And the son we had—

the one son—born of our hate and lust—

died in my womb. When Henry was hurt at the jousting.

Then Henry looked in my face and said,

“This marriage is cursed like the other.

I’ve known it all along.

There’s a curse on it.”

And he turned and left me.

Have you no hate in your heart, Anne?

You had hate enough when you were young!

Hate him now, and curse him, and it won’t matter

what he does—or has done! I can’t hate him.

It’s as he said long ago:

You love where you love.

You can’t change it. And this great fool and bully,

I’d take him now

if he came and put out his hand

and said one word.

[The lights dim, remaining on Anne’s face, then coming up on stage left]

Even when they came . . .

Act Three

SCENE 1

Sleep, little coddling,

    Sleep, sleep warm,

Your mother’s in a taking,

    There will be a storm.

Sleep, little hatchling,

    Sleep, little squirrel,

Your father’s losing money,

    There will be a quarrel.

Can you pick up your cards, Nan?

Play for me, will you, Madge? Never mind, I can leave her.
[She rises and goes to the card table. norfolk comes in from stage left, followed by cromwell]
We have visitors. We are honored, gentlemen, but why were you not announced?

[To Cromwell] Norris and Smeaton.

Yes, I know the names.

I have a warrant for your arrest, niece. I could have let others bring it, but I thought I could do it more gently than some.

What . . . am I to be arrested for?

Also any gentlemen found in your chamber are to be taken with you.

But—why? What for? I am the queen.

[Embarrassed, looking at a paper] For—it says for adultery. With these—and three others.

But—this is—

Niece, it’s pure nonsense. But here it is.

You will take a few things and come.

But the child?

You will leave her with your women.

Then—what women may I take with me?

You will be furnished with attendants at the Tower.

We go to the Tower, too?

You go to the Tower.

[The lights flick out and come up on Henry, sitting at his table as in Act Two]

Act Three

SCENE 2

What have you done?

She’s safe in a room without windows.

We can’t keep her there. We have no evidence. There’s no precedent for the trial of a queen.

No evidence? Smeaton admits adultery with her.

What?
[He leaps to his feet]
Smeaton!

And there will be others.

Where is Smeaton?

In the Tower.

He’s been tortured?

Would that impugn his evidence?

I’ve sometimes wondered.

There will be others.

I want to be just. I must be just in this. Smeaton! Tell me. Is this true?

The truth is what the judges will find, what the king will decide.

You’ll go too far with this verbal juggling some day! What I want to know is, did this happen?

He confesses it.

Under what torture?

Only a rope around his brows. No more.

God knows she could. Any woman could. And I’ve given her cause. But you have reasons for wishing her guilty, you know! You’re not an impartial judge. You need a scapegoat to blame for the robbery of the church!

My lord—

And I need a scapegoat! I’m no impartial judge! I’d want to find her guilty, and you know that, you play on that!

My lord, if you wish to accuse me—

I accuse both of us! I want to marry elsewhere! There was a time when getting rid of Anne wouldn’t have helped. I’d have had Katharine round my neck again. But now Katharine’s dead. And if Anne were dead I’d be free! And you saw this and so you put the temptation before me! Liar, butcher, sewer rat! And yet she may truly be guilty.

So Smeaton says.

[After a pause] Let her be tried. Let Norfolk sit over her as judge. Let her own uncle be the judge. Let her be tried by a group of peers. And if she speaks in her defense I wish it to be where I may hear her speak—without being seen.

Yes, my lord.

[The lights go out on Henry and Cromwell, come up on . . .]

Act Three

SCENE 3

I’d have preferred to see you alone, Anne, that’s true, but there are reasons why I couldn’t.

You may send the others out, I think.

The point is, they won’t go. Kingston won’t go because he has orders that nobody’s to see you alone. Cromwell won’t go because he doesn’t want anything said to you—or by you—that he doesn’t hear. And I don’t dare to be alone with you here, because I’m your judge, and it would be thought I was in collusion with you.

I’m glad to see you even on these terms, Uncle Norfolk. I’ve had little company. I’d ask you to sit, but my cell’s poorly furnished.

Thank you, we do nicely.

I could have some chairs, perhaps?

I’m sorry, Your Majesty.

No?
[She smiles]
Well, it’s you who stand, not I.

What I came to ask is whether I can help you in any way.

Would you?

If I can.

There are three things I’ve wanted very much. One is to walk out and look at the sky—a few minutes every day. I get such a longing to see the sky. And . . .

Yes?

I’d like to see one or two friends—only one or two—if they could come here. Somebody could be with us—but I’d like to see them.

Yes.

And my Elizabeth. Couldn’t she visit me—or even stay here? She’d be company for me—she’s three now—and the days are so horribly long.

Kingston?

These things have all been thought of, my lord.

Oh?

And all forbidden.

By whom?

By him who thinks of everything.

By Henry?
[Kingston doesn’t answer]
By the king?

[After a pause] He is not allowed to answer, my dear.

Yes. By Henry. I understand. But why it’s all taken so seriously and black-browed, that I don’t understand at all. Nobody can actually believe that I’m guilty. Or actually find me guilty.

My dear, do you think you could bring yourself to live quietly somewhere—out of the kingdom—such a place as Antwerp—and not claim your rights here further?

I could be quiet. I’d be glad to be quiet. You’re offering me something. If I resign my queenship—and the succession?

Suppose you made it easy—to annul your marriage? Could you do that?

What would it mean for Elizabeth?

She’d go to Antwerp with you.

And it would go back to what Henry wanted in the first place. I’d be a mistress—a discarded mistress with an unfathered child. No. I’d have to refuse that.

But—if you do—won’t the peers have to find you guilty, Anne?

Even though I’m not?
[He is silent]
And you?

I’d have no choice. I must impose a sentence commensurate with the guilt they find.

I’d have to die then?
[He is silent]
By the headsman?
[He is still silent]

I can’t believe it.

It’s not certain, of course. I’m not sure. Speak well at your trial, girl. You can do it, none better. None as well. Make them listen. That way there may be hope.

[The lights dim]

At my trial?

Yes. Make it difficult for him. Speak—as if he were there.

[The lights go out. The little barred window appears, then Anne. She is alone in her cell]

Act Three

SCENE 4

I ask you this question for the last time, Henry Norris, and I warn you that there is mercy in this court only for those who tell truth. What were your relations with the queen?

Speaking truly, Master Cromwell, I can say only what I have said before—that I have always honored Her Majesty, Queen Anne, for her wit and presence and her conduct of the court, and also for her known and unquestioned virtue. Whoever has slandered her enough to say that there was ever a breath of wrong between her and me—he lies, no matter who he is, or where.

[As Norris speaks we see Anne seated listening as the defendant in the trial. Then, on the opposite side of the stage, we see that a curtain, or arras, is hung along the wall, and that King Henry sits concealed behind it, hearing the trial]

Your guilt is open and known, sir. You will find it useless to deny it.

You have brought no witnesses against me. I am unjustly accused in this star chamber and quite guiltless—and I believe the queen to be quite as guiltless as I am.

Remove Henry Norris and bring Mark Smeaton in again.

[A bailiff comes forward to lead Norris out]

Lord Norfolk, this is no just procedure! Do you continue to lend it your countenance?

Every man to his own conscience, lad.

God keep me from yours!

That he will do.

The one witness the prosecution has found is a loose-mouthed woman of sinister reputation! The queen has denied her guilt! The five men accused with her deny their guilt and hers—in spite of torture, bribes, and promises of acquittal!

[henry rises in his place, uneasy]

Let us proceed with the case. The next witness.

[norris is led out. smeaton is brought in. He is pale and broken. The mark of a rope appears on his forehead. He sits and looks down]

Swear him.

[A bailiff takes a Bible to Smeaton, lays his hand on it. sits]

Do you swear to tell the truth at this trial?

Yes.

[The bailiff takes the Bible away]

Again I warn you, Mark Smeaton, that there will be mercy only for those who tell truth. What were your relations with the woman who sits here, the former Queen Anne?

My lord, I have told only the truth. So far as I know she is innocent. I am innocent.

Do you wish to spend another half hour with the executioner?

No.

Then truthfully. Did you have carnal relations with Queen Anne?

My lord, you don’t want the truth—

Did you have carnal relations with Queen Anne? And this time have a care of yourself. I shan’t ask you again!
[A silence]
Answer!

[Looking desperately round the court, then again at the floor] Yes.

Did you answer yes?

[Low] Yes.

He confesses it. [To the clerk] Be sure this is written [To ] You had relations with the queen at sundry times and places?

Yes.

Why, now you begin to talk like a man. Now we begin to think well of you, and you shall be treated like a man. Take him to his cell and let him rest. Let us have Norris again!

[To norfolk] My lord! My lord of Norfolk!

Yes, Lady Anne.

May I question this man—Mark Smeaton?

Why do you wish to question him?

You know this is not a trial, Uncle Norfolk! It’s like an evil dream, with no witnesses, no defense for the accused, no sifting of evidence, no waft of air from outside, and yet I’m being tried here for my life—and five men are being tried! Since no man speaks for me or examines for me, let me speak and examine for myself!

Take him to his cell.

Lord Cromwell examines for you.

He! He brought me here! He is my accuser!

Why, let her question Mark Smeaton.

[smeaton is brought back]

Thank you, my lord. Mark, look at me.
[He looks at her, then away]
I know well you’ve been tortured, but you know it’s not true—what you’ve said about you and me. Why do you say it?

[Low] It is true.

[To the clerk] Write that. He says it is true.

Mark, you poor lad, I’ve been at the other end of the process, and I know the wiles they use on the rats and rabbits they catch in their trap. I know why you’ve changed your mind and say now that I’m guilty. They’ve promised you your life if you’ll say it. But they won’t keep their word, Mark. After you’ve testified they’ll find you guilty and worthy of death.

[Smeaton is silent]

He’s said it three times now. We have our evidence.

Isn’t it better, if we’re to die, that we die with the truth on our lips? You can’t save me or save yourself, but you will save something if you refuse to utter a falsehood with the last breath you have. It’s a pernicious falsehood, and its influence will go on forever. It’s the word you will be remembered for.

[Desperate] It’s not a falsehood! It’s true! I’m guilty! I was guilty with the queen! Let me go! Let me go! I was guilty! The queen was guilty! Let me go free!

Take him to his cell.

Who do you say it for, Mark? For Cromwell, here, this hollow-ground death’s man? He’s promised life to uncounted monks and men—and seen them hastily buried. It’s his trade. He’s done it for me—to my shame!

She came to my bed! I swear it!

Mark, Mark!

Take him out!

[The bailiff leads mark smeaton toward the exit, but before they can go henry has risen in his chair suddenly, tipping it over backward, and making enough noise to startle the court. He strides into the scene, his eyes on Smeaton]

Ah! He who sees everything, who knows everything! The king!

[At his entrance, though he takes no note of them, the peers all rise and bow. cromwell bows]

[To Smeaton] Give your testimony again! You say the queen came to your bed. When? How many times?

[Not looking up] Many times.

When was this?

I don’t remember.

You will remember! Call it to mind, man, or you’ll speak with those who can jog your memory! When did this happen? Where?

At York place.

You lie. It could never have happened at York place—for you slept in a room with two others!

No, no, it was at Windsor!

Fool! She went to Windsor only with me. Can you find no better lie!

It was many places! She came to my bed! It was wherever you like, whenever you like! Oh, God help me, let me go! Let me go free! I’ll say whatever you like!

Did Cromwell promise you your life if you said this?

My lord!

[Knocking pen and book from the clerk’s hand] Cease this pen-scratching! Answer me! Did he say you would live?

Yes.

He lied to you. You’re to die, musician. Say what you like you’re to die! Speak now without lying, for it gains you nothing!

Why am I to die?

You’re to die in any case, whatever’s said from here on. And now that you know that, what happened between you and the queen?

[Coming to himself] Between the queen and me? Nothing. She was kind and pleasant and just. I wouldn’t hurt her. But they’ve broken me with ropes and irons—and wooden wedges.

Take him out.
[A bailiff leads smeaton out]
And yet it could be true. [To Anne] You were no virgin when I met you first. You told me as much. You knew what it was to have men.

Have you stepped into your own trap, my lord? Any evidence you have against me you yourself bought and paid for. Do you now begin to believe it?

[Looks at her steadily for a moment, then turns] I was a fool to come here!

Why did you come?

Because I wanted to know!

[He faces her again]

Because I wanted to know! And still I don’t know!

And no man ever knows!

Whether I was unfaithful to you?

Yes! Just that! Whether you were unfaithful to me while I loved you! But I’ll never know! Whether you say aye or no I won’t be sure either way! Fool that I am! That all men are!

There are fools and fools, King Henry. Do you have a moment to hear my side of it?

No.

Go then.

But when you speak of fools—you’ve shut me up here

to be tried for adultery and treason toward you.

I’m tried as if in a coffin—and those with me—

in a coffin—the lid closed—no evidence—

no voice—no air to breathe—no cell mates for us but torture—

or lies—or false promises.

You’ve done this because you love elsewhere—

you want to forget me utterly, go on, have sons—

and it’s easy with me—it’s only a death—

not like that dreadful years-long tug of worlds

you had to go through with Katharine.

So you do this—and I know it—

but now you come here

to make sure whether there were truly adultery,

because that would touch your manhood—

or your pride!

And you sit and listen, a cat in a corner,

watching the pet mouse run before it dies.

And then you come out—to make sure!

And, oh fool of fools,

even so, my heart and my eyes

are glad of you!

Fool of all women that I am,

I’m glad of you here!

Go, then. Keep your pride of manhood.

You know about me now.

Nan—

Mind, I ask no pity of you—

for I’m as proud as you—though my heart has played me this trick—

and puts me here and you there—

but I would like to ask you, what kind of court is this

where the peers sit along the wall like painted figures,

saying nothing, and the judge fears the prosecutor,

and the truth isn’t wanted?

Are you so afraid of me? Am I such a danger?

This court was set up for a purpose.

You know that.

You’ve seen such courts.

Yes.

You were given a choice.

When?

A man you know

came offering you a choice.

I think you recall it.

There was some suggestion

the marriage could be nullified.

I said no to that.

The suggestion came from you?

It came from me.

I’d have to say no again.

But think still once more

about it, Nan. I have no wish to harm you.

I am much moved by what you said. I’d rather

a year cut out of my life than do you wrong.

After those words of yours.

Did you say—

Did you say truly, you were glad of me here?

I won’t say it again.

But I did say it.

And it was true.

Then,

let’s do this all gently, Nan,

for old times’ sake.

I have to prove that I can father a king

to follow me.

That was why I left Katharine—

why I turned to you.

It’s why I must leave you now and turn to someone else,

but it can be done all simply and gently,

without this court or the headsman.

How?

If I’m to marry again

you must somehow free me. Divorce won’t do,

because that would leave Elizabeth the heir.

Nullification of our marriage—that—

if you would agree to it, and sign away

all rights, and live at some distance—

that would do it.

Why must you leave a king to follow you, Henry?

Why not a queen?

This country’s never been ruled by a queen.

I doubt that it could be.

You and I,

we’ll not have a son now.

God has spoken there.

I must have my king’s sons elsewhere.

And it grows late.

I’m not young as I was.

And what do you want of me?

Go quietly. Sign the nullification.

Live abroad with Elizabeth. You’ll be cared for.

Leave me free.

No.

Once we danced together, and I told you

any children we had

would be bastards. You promised me

to change that—now you dance out of your promise

and reduce to bastards again. Well, I won’t do it.

We were king and queen, man and wife together. I keep that.

Take it from me as best you can.

You do leave no choice.

Would you let this grind on

the way it’s going?

You would, if it served your purpose.

I?

I remember

your saying, “Let them die,” upon a time.

You’ve forgotten it, no doubt.

No, I did say it.

These things look different from the other end.

If I’d known then what I feel now—

I couldn’t have done it.

No.

I’ve been your wife.

Could you do it to me?

Yes. If you stood in my way.

Defiantly. As you do.

You’re not old. You’ve been long a king.

But you’re still young and could change.

You said—on that one day when we loved each other—

you remember—that one day when I loved you

and you loved me—that you would change—would seek justice—

would be such a king as men had hoped you’d be

when you came to the throne?

It’s not too late for that.

Only if you harden in your mind toward me,

and say, it’s nothing, like the other rats and rabbits

let her be cut and torn and buried—

then I think

it will be indeed too late.

The king—the great king

you might have been, will have died in you.

Now I’ll tell you truly.

I do want to begin again.

And I can’t with you.

You brought me into blood—that bloody business

of the death of More and all the pitiful folk

who were like him and wouldn’t sign.

Your hand was to that. It’s bloodstained.

And yours? Not yours?

Will you give back what you stole from the monasteries,

and the men executed?

Will you resume with Rome?

When you do that I’ll take your word again.

But you won’t do it.

And what you truly want—

you may not know it—

is a fresh, frail, innocent maid who’ll make you feel

fresh and innocent again,

and young again.

Jane Seymour is the name. It could be anyone.

Only virginal and sweet. And when you’ve had her

you’ll want someone else.

It’s not true.

Meanwhile, to get her,

You’ll murder if you must.

[Angry] Why, then you’ve decided. And so have I.

Norfolk!

[He starts away]

[Flashing out] Before you go, perhaps

You should hear one thing—

I lied to you.

I loved you, but I lied to you! I was untrue!

Untrue with many!

This is a lie.

Is it? Take it to your grave! Believe it!

I was untrue!

Why, then, it’s settled.

You asked for it. You shall have it.

Quite correct.

Only what I take to my grave you take to yours!

With many! Not with one! Many!

[To Norfolk] She’s guilty! She dies!

Proceed with this mummery.

[He turns]

May we have your signature, my lord?

Lend me your pen.

[He takes the clerk’s pen from his hand, pulls a paper from his pocket, and sits to write. The lights dim on all those present save Henry and Anne]

She lies, she lies. She was not unfaithful to me.

And yet—if she were—

She could—any woman could—

and yet she lies!

If she lies, let her die for lying!

Let her die.

[He writes]

Oh God, oh God,

sometimes I seem to sit in a motionless dream,

and watch while I do a horrible thing

and know that I do it,

and all the clocks in all the world stand still—waiting.

What is she thinking in this halted interval

while no mote falls through the shaft of sunlight

and no man takes a breath?

[To herself, as the lights dim on Henry] I’ve never thought what it was like to die.

To become meat that rots. Then food for shrubs,

and the long roots of vines.

The grape could reach me.

I may make him drunk before many years.

Someone told me the story

of the homely daughter of Sir Thomas More

climbing at night up the trestles of London Bridge

where they’d stuck her father’s head on a spike—

and climbing down with it, and taking it home.

To bury in the garden perhaps.

Even so, it was death. And I ordered it.

And Bishop Fisher, the old frail man.

And Houghton.

And the thousands.

They lie there now. And the roots find them.

—That was my dream! I remember—

poor homely Margaret

climbing into the darkness above the bridge

and hunting among the stinking and bloody heads

of criminals, till she found her father’s head,

and pulling it from the spike,

holding on with one hand, crying, almost falling,

his beard matted and hard with blood.

Then she must clasp the horrible thing against her breast,

and climb down in the dark, holding by one hand,

slipping, near falling, unable to see for tears.

“Where is your father’s head?” they asked her.

“In earth,” she said proudly. “How far do you pursue a great man after his death?”

And they haven’t found it, still. . . .

Would they fix my head up on London Bridge?

No. Even Henry would object to that.

I’ve been his queen. He’s kissed my lips.

He wouldn’t want it. I’ll lie in lead—or brass. Meat. Dead meat.

But if my head were on the bridge he wouldn’t climb to take it down.

Nobody’d climb for me. I could stay and face up the river,

and my long hair blow out and tangle round

the spikes—and my small neck.

Till the sea birds took me,

and there was nothing but a wisp of hair

and a cup of bone.

Sir Thomas More made a jest before he died.

He spoke to the headsman at the foot of the scaffold—

“Friend,” he said, “if you’ll help me to get up,

I’ll see to the coming down.”

I must think of something to say when the time comes.

If I could say it—with the ax edge toward me.

Could I do it? Could I lay my head down—

and smile, and speak? Till the blow comes?

They say it’s subtle. It doesn’t hurt. There’s no time.

No time. That’s the end of time.

I wonder what will come of my little girl

when she must go on alone.

[Rising, the paper in his hands] Shall I tear this?

No.

Go your way, and I’ll go mine.

You to your death, and I to my expiation.

For there is such a thing as expiation.

It involves dying to live.

Death is a thing the coroner can see.

I’ll stick by that.

A coroner wouldn’t know you died young, Henry.

And yet you did.

[Turning away] Burn these records!

[He kicks the clerk’s book, which lies on the floor, and goes out. The lights go out on the scene]

Act Three

SCENE 5

I’ve worked all night.

There’s light in the window.

They say you need less sleep as you grow older.

Or more.

One or the other. This night I’ve had none.

[He puts out a hand]

Yet my hand’s steady as a tree.

And the writing’s firm as a boy’s.

This is the morning she’s to die. I’d almost forgotten.

That would have shaken me, ten years ago.

Not now.

[He lays the quill down]

I need a new pen.

[He takes up the penknife and begins to cut a new quill with practiced hand. The boom of a single cannon is heard]

Nan is dead. Well, so much for Nan. That’s over.

[He pares tranquilly at the quill. Suddenly there’s blood on the paper and on his hands. He rises, throws down the knife and quill, stanching the blood with a handkerchief]

And so your hands are steady, are they?

[He needs and finds another kerchief]

Open the bag you lug behind you, Henry.

Put in Nan’s head.

Nan’s head,

and her eyes, and the lips you kissed.

Wherever you go they’ll follow after you now.

Her perfume will linger

in every room you enter, and the stench

of her death will drive it out. . . .

Get on with your work.

[He sits, wraps a kerchief about his hand, dips the new pen, and writes]

These are not empty things you do.

[As he bends over his table Anne is seen standing opposite him. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and the fur collar turned down. There is a ring of blood about her neck. henry looks up]

It’s Nan.

No doubt I’ll sometimes see you when I’m alone.

It’s not over yet between us, is it?

Strangely enough

it will never be over between us, or in our world,

Nan girl. More than that—what we did,

thinking we did it for ourselves—our hate and our passion—

these were somehow arranged for us by our masters—

by the people of this kingdom—

or made use of by them.

You thought you did what you wished.

I thought, no, I was the cleverer—all went as I wished.

But truly it all went as the people wished.

We were the puppets and they dangled us

to a tune they were playing.

[She smiles]

Why do you smile?

That’s not quite true, is it? That’s my sophistry again.

I can hear you saying that the blame is ours, that for what we do we pay, that nothing’s ever forgiven.

Perhaps.

But one thing we do know—it will never be ended,

never be put back the way it was.

Nothing can ever be put back the way it was.

The limb that was cut from Rome won’t graft to that trunk again.

What we were will be permanent in England,

however it came about,

whether your will,

or mine,

or theirs.

CURTAIN

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Numerous character references in stage directions have had their fonts fixed.

[The end of Anne of the Thousand Days by Maxwell Anderson]