by G Lawrence
“But they do have a daughter, Your Grace.”
“A girl cannot rule England, child. No mere woman could hold lords, earls and dukes together, and hold off threat from abroad. Were a woman to sit alone on the English throne, foreign kings would think England weak, and they would invade. There must be a son, or we will see war again, like those your grandfather fought.” My grandmother paused for a moment. “At first,” she went on. “I did not support the King wishing to be rid of Katherine. She was a good Queen, and a good woman, a far rarer thing; courageous, strong and modest. All a queen should be. But in time, I came to understand, and I support him annulling his marriage and taking Anne as his Queen. Many people say it is shocking, but it is not unusual. Many kings have separated from wives who could bear no children. What the King is asking for is the future security of his nation, and the Pope will not grant it. The King is correct in this matter, His Holiness is not.”
“Your Grace, is that why you testified at Blackfriars?”
“Indeed. Katherine is a good woman, but she is lying about being a virgin when she went to the King. She was not. Her virginity was technical. It suited all parties to believe in it, so it was so. But the Pope’s dispensation was faulty, and this marriage is indeed wrong.”
“Why did the cardinals not annul the marriage, Your Grace?”
“The Pope is being held prisoner by Katherine’s nephew, King Charles of Spain,” said my grandmother. “Rome was sacked some years ago, and since then the King of Spain has held the Pope under his thumb. Were the cardinals to decide in the King’s favour, who knows what might happen to Rome?”
“My lady, is the Pope not supposed to decide what is best for matters of spirit, rather than what is best for Rome?”
She laughed. “Indeed… yet he is a man. Some Popes are holier than others, girl. This you will learn in time.” She rapped her cane on the ground. “The case was suspended, no verdict was reached, which left the King married and unhappy. But he has not been idle, no! He became Head of the Church, and now has powers in England equal to those of the Pope. He sent Katherine away and they say soon he will end his marriage.”
“If he has the power, Your Grace, why does he not use it now?”
“Because he, like the Pope, must think on matters other than conscience. If he decides this matter before it is demonstrated without doubt that he has the authority under God’s law to do so, the King of Spain may declare war. There is great unrest in the country, for people do not like the troubles we have with Rome. The Pope has been the father of religion for centuries, and England has followed him. What if he were to excommunicate the King? The penalty would fall not on just His Majesty, but on all of us.”
I shivered. I knew what excommunication was. Father Borough spoke of it. It was the most awful punishment; being damned, never to enter Heaven. “They wait, then, until they have proof of the King’s power, Your Grace?”
She inclined her head. “But they will find an answer. Each week, the King sends men to Rome, and is seeking alliance with France. If King François joined with our King against Charles of Spain, and set the Pope free, his Holiness would be able to decide the Great Matter.”
I frowned. “Your Grace, did not the King break with Rome?”
“His Majesty still sees the papacy as the true authority of God. He would like Rome to find in his favour, but if the Pope will not, the King may take other measures. The break was a threat, a warning. Other countries have decided to recognise the Pope and his power no more, but England the Pope would be sore to lose. The King wishes the Pope to act in a more spiritual manner, but His Majesty knows that the Pope is the only one who truly can rule upon his marriage.”
It appeared other people had different thoughts. There was much being whispered that spring. A petition was sent to the King which called upon him to take the full power of his title of Head of the English Church into his hands. In May, we were told Parliament had decided the King should be the only lawmaker for the Church in England, and everyone was saying the King now had the power to end his marriage himself.
That was not the only whisper. By that summer, people were saying Anne Boleyn was a heretic who followed the teachings of Martin Luther, once a Catholic priest who had rebelled against Rome. Other countries in the northern regions of the world had already abandoned Rome, saying the Vatican was corrupt and ungodly, and they were following the teachings of Luther. It was said Anne was one of Luther’s followers, perhaps his disciple, sent to corrupt the King.
“She reads the Bible in English,” Margaret Smith whispered to Joan.
Workers in the fields and kitchens would cross themselves when they heard her name, for they thought she was taking the King on a perilous path which would see England cursed. It was said she was a witch, using magical powers to lure the King into sin. Queen Katherine, it was said, was the true Queen, and no matter what airs my cousin gave herself, she never would be.
“The heretic witch, Nan Boleyn, will see us all in Hell,” muttered one woman to another as I passed the barns. Their hands did not falter as they carded flax, but the face of the other darkened.
“Goggle-eyed whore,” she said. “What the King sees in her I will never know, not when he has a good woman like Queen Katherine.”
“He sees an untried quinny,” said the first. “All men are fools for a virgin.”
“From what I hear, that witch is no virgin,” said the second. “She had a legion of men in France, and the Duke of Northumberland’s son and Thomas Wyatt when she came home.”
“Do not believe everything you hear,” my grandmother said when I relayed some of this gossip. I had learned a good bit of rumour was worth quite a lot in the currency of kindness from my grandmother, but I did not pass on the parts about Anne being a whore. That would cost those women their jobs, and they had families to feed.
“Anne Boleyn is a good Catholic, like you and me, but she is a reformist. There is nothing ungodly in thinking the Church requires reform, child. Many times it has been worked upon, improved for God and His people. That is what she believes, and what she will have the King do, but she is no heathen or heretic. And as for reading the Bible in English, many learned men have argued this should become practice…. Not for everyone of course. Commoners would become mortally confused and most women too, but for heads of households it could be important.”
“Are not priests supposed to explain the Bible to us, Your Grace?”
“To the majority, yes,” said Agnes. “But for some, it could be a valuable tool to understand the mind of God. There is no sin in understanding God better. That is what your cousin does. She reads Latin, and is learning Greek. The Bible was translated into French some time ago by scholars, and she reads that too. She will be Queen, and higher learning is suitable for a queen, for she will be the instrument of God. I do not say I approve of all her ways, but what she wants is for the Church to be better.”
“Is it not a sin to criticise the Church, Your Grace?”
“A sin to criticise God, child, yes… But the Church, no.” She looked at me. “You should not, for you know nothing, but for others, such as the King, who was chosen by God to rule England, it is different. And there are questions for learned men to ask. Is not the Pope choosing to keep England without an heir for fear that King Charles will kill him? The Holy Father should be above such trifling concerns as dying. He should emulate his Lord, Jesus Christ, who died for the sins of the world, putting others before himself.” She nodded. “The King knows this, as does the English Church.”
“But the King still wishes the Pope to decide the matter, my lady?”
“He does, and the Pope will come to his senses eventually.”
It seemed he would not. The Pope was insisting the King go to Rome for the case for his marriage to be held again, but the King refused to go. That summer, Archbishop Warham died, and people said he would be replaced with someone who supported the King. I was told the King could choose his Archbishop, but Rome would
have to approve him.
But there were indications the King was past caring what Rome approved of.
In September, my cousin was made Marquis of Pembroke in her own right. It was a high title, and one most unusual for a woman, for it placed her just below a duke in order of rank. Everyone said the King had done it as he could not marry a woman with so low a title as the one Anne currently possessed. Then, my grandmother came home from a trip to court with news.
“The King is to go to France,” she said. I detected a triumphant note in her voice. She had said he would make an alliance with King François, and now was proved correct. “And what do you think, child? Anne is to go with him, to be presented as his future Queen.”
Chapter Six
Chesworth House
Autumn - Winter 1532
“Why would she not meet my cousin, Your Grace?”
“Because Katherine of Aragon is her aunt, child.”
That October, the King and my cousin had gone to France, and although Queen Eleanor would not meet Anne, the trip was announced a grand success.
My grandmother sniffed. “But it matters not. King François met her, and he is the one who matters. Anne danced before him, and afterwards they went to a seat and talked for more than an hour. Our King was delighted, for it was clear his brother-king desired Anne too, and was jealous of him.” She chuckled. “The King has always tried to outdo François,” she went on. “Ever since they came to their thrones, the King has wanted to best him at something. Now, he has.”
I wondered why that would matter to a man who had everything, but I kept quiet. My grandmother, however, saw the look in my eyes.
“You wonder at that?” she said. “It is a thing to wonder at, that a man so powerful could want to be envied. But all men do, child. Especially when it comes to women and most especially when it comes to women they do not yet possess. Men own us, child. When we are young, our fathers are our masters, and when we marry, our husbands. There are few times a woman might be free in this world. One is when she is a widow, like me, and another is when she is between being a child and being married. That is where Anne stands. Officially, her father is her master, but he surrendered that position to the King long ago. But the King is not her husband yet, so she is free. That wild, uncaptured bird is the most elusive of all creatures. All men want her, and none have her. It is enough to drive a man to madness.”
“But when she marries, Your Grace, she will not be free,” I said.
“No, but she will have power, she will be Queen. That state is a great deal freer than most women know in their lives.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “We are all in chains, child, we women. That is the way of things. What matters is finding shackles loose enough to allow movement, finding a husband who will allow some freedom. The King will grant Anne that. She is fortunate.”
“But will he like her when she is not this bird anymore, my lady?”
“When she is his, she will bear children and that will bind him to her.” She saw sadness in my eyes, to think my cousin would no more be loved, and smiled. “All girls are such romantics,” she said. “He loves her for reasons other than her wildness, child. Fear not. Theirs will be a merry union.”
*
“Your father is to marry again,” Agnes said one bright, frosty morning in December.
It was just before Christmas. The house was decked from the tops of the rafters to the foot of the stairs in greenery. We maids had gathered a great deal ourselves, heading out into the parks and orchards with the officers of the household, there to ensure gallants collecting and cutting branches and leaves did not become too familiar with us.
We had giggled as bright-cheeked young men had climbed trees, seeking mistletoe and ivy, and watched with admiration as they hauled back whole branches to the great hall. Snow had fallen early that year, and as we filled our baskets with red holly berries, white mistletoe and glimmering dark ivy, snow thumped from branches to the ground, making a wet, flopping noise, like a drunk tumbling into bed. In the fresh, biting chill I had stood, breathing in cold-burnt air until my lungs felt purified by the fire of the frozen wind. Then back to the house we had tramped, singing ‘Green groweth the Holly’, to decorate the great hall, the corridors and windows.
We had laughed as young men took daring risks to reach the highest points possible, and gasped when they pretended to lose their balance, wobbling like spinning tops at the head of ladders. Despite all their charming tomfoolery, we had finished our work. The house looked as though the spirit of winter had become too cold and hastened indoors. Fires glowing in all the main rooms sent red and golden lights to glint from dark green leaves winding in garlands about them. Mistletoe hung in the great hall, where my grandmother or her officers could ensure no more than kisses were granted if a maid was caught underneath, and holly berries sang from the windows as the bright, white light of sun reflected on snow caught their crimson faces.
We had been working on presents for each other and my grandmother for weeks, sewing and crafting sleeves, handkerchiefs and cuffs, collecting bundles of herbs or stealing them from the kitchen’s store to make posies and scented pillows for clothes’ chests. But I was to get an early New Year’s present that year. A new stepmother.
I bobbed a small curtsey for being informed my father was to marry, for I had not heard a whisper of him since he left for Calais. In truth, I did not think of him a great deal. Our home had been dull, grey and sad compared to Chesworth. He was in my prayers, but not my daily thoughts. “May I know the name of the lady, Your Grace?”
A flicker of approval for my cultured enquiry crossed her eyes. “Mistress Margery Jennings. A recent widow, with a bit of coin. Hopefully she will come with a bit of sense, too, and lock that coin away from your father.”
“But he will own her property when they wed, will he not, Your Grace?”
Agnes grinned. “If there is one thing you should learn, girl, it’s how a woman manages a house without her husband knowing anything of it. You think I stood aside all those years when married to your grandfather and let him take care of our money?” She shook her head. “That’s the way a widow ends up ruined. Your grandfather had no head for figures. War was what he was good at, so he got on with it. I got on with the business of making sure we did not run to ruin.”
“You have to get your husband to trust you,” she went on, “and leave the household in your hands. That way, you can choose the cuts of meat, the herbs, all that goes into the kitchen and comes out. Buy well, on standard items, know where to cut and save, make sure properties to be left to you are in good order, and you can make a slim fortune into a mighty one. Never hand the books to your husband. Men will spend a fortune on cloths for the scullery, or undergarments for servants that no one will ever see, just for the sake of pride.” She cast a hand over her gown, resplendent with silk, velvet and furs. “It is the outside show that matters,” she said. “Everywhere else, you cut and save. That is what your father never learnt, and his wives never seemed to teach him.”
“Father did the accounts,” I said, remembering him, bowed head and slumped-shouldered over them, a goblet of wine shaking in his hands. I hid a shudder and cast the image away. That was a picture of abject despair I did not like to think on.
“And that was the mistake of your family,” she said. “He should have handed them to Jocasta. Your mother had a head for numbers, like me.”
“And everyone… knows this, Your Grace?”
“Of course. Anyone with sense, in any case, but no one speaks of it. That’s the secret, you see. Know, but say nothing.”
That, I was coming to learn, was not only the rule in my grandmother’s chambers. Kat had told Joan that I knew about the men who came by night and she explained it to me. “It is training for court,” Joan giggled. “For there all persons keep lovers yet none know of it.”
I smiled. “And my grandmother knows?”
I had to admit, there was a part of me that had doubted Kat’s decla
ration, but Joan put her finger to her nose. “She affects to know nothing, yet knows all… just like everyone. That is the secret, you see? It is a secret all keep, for all know of it.”
“It is the outside show that matters,” I said and Joan nodded, pleased I understood.
I was told that in other houses the rules were more strictly kept. Some lords had separate staircases for each sex of servant, and anyone found on the wrong stairs was banished. In my grandmother’s house the appearance of honour was maintained on the outside, but she had good reason to turn a blind eye to the night time activities of her servants.
“Your grandmother understands the lot of women can be unhappy,” said Joan. “Some women may only get one husband, so why should that marriage not be full of love rather than just duty? A woman in love is more likely to bear children, too, for if she does not enjoy her marriage bed her body becomes barren. And men are often kinder to a wife they love.”