by Alison Weir
The Admiral looked offended. “Madam, do you laugh at me?” he asked.
Hastily she shook her head and pointed across to where the King was standing.
“He went to fetch your secretary,” she said, “but he ran across a lady, and she has made him completely forget what he went for!” She laughed again, but the tears were welling. The Admiral looked away, embarrassed.
—
Mary had now been rusticating in the country for three months. George had learned that she and William had gone to stay with the Stafford family.
“I’m still furious with her,” Anne told him. “She’d better not show her face here!”
But now here was Cromwell, showing Anne a letter from Mary in which she had begged him to intercede for her. Anne read it, then thrust it back at him in disgust.
“She does herself no favors!” she snapped. “I have never heard a petitioner use a more defiant, unrepentant tone. How come she thinks her plight is more deserving of pity than anyone else’s? Master Cromwell, she makes too many demands of you. If she is really hoping for a reconciliation with me, she is going the wrong way about it.”
She did not say how sharply Mary’s words had stung. For well I might have had a greater man of birth, but I assure you I could never have had one that loved me so well. I had rather beg my bread with him than be the greatest queen christened. The taunt went too deep. It laid bare Mary’s jealousy and underlined the bitter irony of their respective situations.
“Never again will I receive her at court,” she told Cromwell. “It is useless to plead for her.”
“I had no intention of doing so, madam.” His smile was wry. “I could perceive the venom in that letter. My advice to her will be to go with her husband to Calais and stay there.”
—
Christmas was approaching, and Anne and her ladies were sewing smocks for the poor, when Henry arrived looking unusually solemn.
“You may go,” he said, and the ladies scattered.
He took the chair opposite Anne, then stood up again and, coming over to her side of the fire, went down on his haunches before her and took her hands. She was so overcome by the gesture that when he seemed to be struggling to speak, she thought he was about to say that it was all over between them. That was what had happened with Katherine.
“I know you set much store by Little Pourquoi,” he said at last. “Anne, I’m sorry to tell you that he fell from a window within this last hour. There was nothing anyone could do to save him.”
“Oh, no!” she cried, desolate. Henry hesitated, then she felt his arms go around her, and, despite her grief over Little Pourquoi’s terrible end, it was so good to feel him close and being kind to her after so long. For a precious moment she felt safe.
“No one dared tell you,” he said against her hair. “My good niece Margaret came to me and asked if I would do it. I am very sorry. It must have been instantaneous.”
He drew back and her eyes searched his. In them she could read only pity.
Christmas was awful. Harry Percy was at court, and when they came face-to-face in a gallery, he threw her a look of utter contempt and walked on, not even bothering to bow. She felt as if she had been slapped.
“Cheer up, niece!” Uncle Norfolk chided her at dinner that day. “You won’t entice the King to your bed with that whey face!”
“Why don’t you just go and swive yourself?” she flung back, and everyone stared.
Norfolk stood up, flung down his napkin, and stalked out. “I can see why they call you the great whore!” he spat as he reached the door of her chamber.
At that very moment, the King arrived. Norfolk almost collided with him. Henry looked at the Duke and then at Anne. She waited for him to explode and censure her uncle for speaking so foully to her—he must have heard him—but he said nothing and, no doubt deciding that his mistress would be more congenial company, went away again. Anne was near to despair. Once he would have taken exception to such a gross insult to her, but not anymore.
1535
In the depths of January, Henry joined Anne for supper one evening. His mood seemed lighter, conciliatory.
“This will please you,” he said. “I have appointed Cromwell Vicar General, with the power to arrange visitations to every religious house in my kingdom. Like you, I am concerned to root out abuses within my Church, and there have been too many reports of irregularities in the monasteries. Moreover, Cromwell tells me that some of the smaller houses lack the wherewithal to support themselves.”
Anne’s spirits soared. “You are reforming the monasteries?”
“I wish to evaluate their wealth and expose any shortcomings in their practices.”
“You will close any that are poor or corrupt?”
Henry hesitated. He poured himself some wine and drank deep. “I intend, in time, to close all of them.”
“All?” She had not expected this.
“It’s nothing new, Anne. Henry the Fifth was doing it a hundred years ago. Wolsey closed some minor or corrupt houses. Do you know, there were only two new foundations in England in the last century?”
“But the monasteries succor the poor. They look after the sick—”
“They are hotbeds of popery!” Henry interrupted. They’re subversive and disloyal. And they grow fat on wealth that should be mine, as head of the Church. It will give me the wherewithal to buy support for my reforms—the reforms you wanted, Anne. I can sell off monastic land to those who defend my stand against Rome, and the rest can go toward replenishing my treasury. It is all but empty.” She knew it. He had squandered his father’s fortune on pleasure and fruitless wars.
In many respects she approved of his plans, and his aim to stamp out popery. But what of the consequences for all the monks and nuns who would be turned out on the streets, the sick who had no one else to care for them, the beggars who would starve, but for the bounty they received at the monastery gates, and the travelers who would find no lodgings for the night? Almost as bad would be the tragic loss of houses renowned for their excellence in learning and teaching, and as repositories of knowledge and great libraries.
This was Cromwell’s doing, she had no doubt. Hadn’t he promised to make Henry the richest sovereign who ever reigned in England? But had he thought this scheme through? Surely there was a better way?
“I have no doubt that your Grace will do all for the best,” she said, resolving to see what transpired and what she could do to achieve a compromise.
Henry stayed with her that night. He took his pleasure briskly, and was just donning his night robe before returning to his own apartments when she caught at his hand.
“Do you think François will agree to Elizabeth’s marriage?” she asked, hoping he would not see how much store she set by it.
He sighed and loosed his hand. “I don’t know, Anne. François has become a good son of the Church, stamping out heresy and free thinking. He may balk at marrying his son to the daughter of one whose marriage has so often been called into question.”
Icy shards pierced her heart. That Henry, who had been so zealous in ensuring that everyone acknowledged her as his true Queen, should say such a thing to her! Did he now doubt that she was? Was he thinking of divorcing her too?
Lying there alone, she told herself that, even if he did regret marrying her, she was still safe, for Katherine’s supporters would see any sign of his abandoning her as an admission that he had been wrong all along, and urge him to take Katherine back. And that she was certain Henry would never do.
—
It was not until February that Palmedes Gontier, secretary to the Admiral of France, asked for an audience with them both.
“It must be about Elizabeth’s marriage!” Anne cried.
“If he has asked for you to be present, it must be,” Henry smiled. “It is proper for a queen to be consulted when her daughter is to be married.”
She sat beside him on the dais in the crowded presence chamber and smiled at the advancing Go
ntier. He bowed and presented her with a letter from the Admiral. She devoured it, but her spirits plummeted when she saw that it contained no word of Elizabeth’s betrothal.
Henry took the letter and read it, then scowled at Anne as if it were her fault. “If you will excuse me, I will confer with my Council,” he said, and leaving her with Gontier, he strode over to his waiting lords.
Anne beckoned Gontier forward. Something had to be said. Ignoring the proposal was tantamount to rudeness on the part of King François.
She realized that the lords and courtiers in the presence chamber were watching her closely, some with ill-concealed hostility. Henry was watching her too. As the envoy drew near, she lowered her voice. “Tell your master, sir, that this long delay in sending an answer about the proposed marriage has engendered in the King my husband many strange thoughts, for which there is great need of a remedy. I hope the King my brother does not wish me to be driven mad and utterly lost, for I find myself near to that, and in more pain and trouble than I have been since my marriage.”
Gontier flinched, obviously embarrassed by her outburst. She knew it was an unforgivable breach of diplomatic etiquette, but she did not care. She was fighting for her daughter’s future and her own. “I pray you, speak to the Admiral on my behalf,” she begged. “I cannot speak as amply to you as I would like, for fear of where I am and of the eyes that are watching me. I cannot write, I cannot see you again, and I can no longer talk with you.”
She rose, leaving the astonished secretary staring at her, and joined Henry, who took her hand and led her out to the hall.
“I told him how eager we are for the marriage,” she said lightly.
—
For several days now, Anne, ever watchful, had seen Joan Ashley going about with a long face.
“I think, or rather, I hope, that the King has tired of her,” she said to Madge Shelton, as they sat at a table with Mary Howard and Margaret Douglas, looking through the poems Madge and her friends had collected for their book.
“He has,” Madge said. “She was weeping about it this morning.”
“He was ever fickle!” Anne’s laugh was bitter. “To be plain, Madge, I’ve given up expecting him to be faithful. What I couldn’t bear was the arrogance of that little bitch.”
“She’s not arrogant anymore.” Madge grinned.
“You are lucky having Norris for a suitor,” Margaret said. “He’s a good man. He would never be untrue.”
Anne froze. Norris was courting Madge? That could not be. He loved her, she knew it. But she was forbidden to him…and he was a man, with a man’s needs. She should be glad that he was seeking happiness elsewhere. Yet that did not allay the pain of the wound she had just been dealt.
Madge was watching her curiously. Their eyes met. “He can never be true to me,” Madge whispered. “He loves another.”
If she had guessed, others might.
“Nonsense!” Margaret smiled at Madge. “He told me he hoped you would marry him.”
“Well, I won’t,” Madge declared. “And if the King must take a mistress, your Grace should push in his path one who loves you and will win his sympathy for you.” Their eyes met again.
“Are you offering?” Anne asked after a long pause.
“I have taken lovers before,” Madge shrugged. “Between the sheets, even the King is a man like other men.”
“You would do that for me?” Anne asked, deeply affected.
“You are my blood. Of course I would. We all owe you so much.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Anne asked. “What of the risk?”
“There are ways to prevent pregnancy,” Madge laughed. “A woman has to experience pleasure to conceive. I’ll think of something gruesome if I find myself getting carried away!”
It felt bizarre plotting the seduction of Henry, her own husband, like this. What had she come to? But if Madge could persuade him to treat her more kindly, it might be worth it.
—
“It worked!” Madge whispered two days later, as she followed Anne to Mass.
Anne did not know what to feel—pleased or jealous. She should be grateful to Madge, but she couldn’t help feeling wronged. Henry was probably making efforts to please her cousin. With Anne, he no longer bothered.
Two days later, though, Madge was despondent. “He’s not interested in talking, and when I mentioned you, he told me we had better things to do.”
After a week, it was over. “I don’t know how you stand it, Anne,” Madge said, sorting through the Queen’s jewel box as Urian tried to nuzzle her hand. “He’s the most boring lover I’ve ever had. Thank God he’s tired of me.”
—
The Lady Mary was ill again. Henry found Anne in her closet, writing letters.
“The doctors fear she might die,” he told her, looking utterly miserable and torn. “Chapuys has urged that she be sent to her mother to be nursed, but I daren’t allow it. What if she escapes abroad, as she might easily do if she were with Katherine? The Emperor might well aid her, then hold me to ransom.”
He sat down, his head in his hands. “If Katherine was to take Mary’s part, she could wage against me a war as fierce as any her mother Isabella ever waged in Spain.”
“They are rebels and traitors, deserving of death,” Anne declared, “and while they live, they will always make trouble for you.”
“If you gave me a son, they could do nothing!” he cried.
“Heaven knows I have tried,” she flung back. “I pray for a son daily, but I fear it is in vain. I had a dream the other night, in which God revealed to me that it will be impossible for me to conceive children while Katherine and Mary live.”
Henry looked at her with distaste. “Sometimes I wonder if God approves of this marriage. You should look to your duty, madam, and not invent excuses.” And without another word, he got up and left her.
—
She could not have felt more wretched or insecure. It did not help that Father kept telling her about those who slandered her. A woman was in prison for calling her a whore and a bawd, a priest for saying she stank worse than a sow in her fornication. Worse still, a monk had been hauled before the Council for asserting that young Henry Carey was the King’s son by her sister. Fortunately, the boy, who had been in her charge since Mary and William Stafford had departed for Calais, was at Hever with his grandmother, protected from the gossip.
These were the little people, their crime mere sedition. The defiance of influential persons was more threatening. Whatever Henry had said to Anne in private, in public he would not lose face. All must acknowledge that he had been right to set aside Katherine and marry her, that Elizabeth was his rightful heir, and that he was Supreme Head of the Church of England. When it came to those who had denied the oath, he was savage.
In May, the Prior of the London Charterhouse, two Carthusian priors, and a monk of Syon were hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn. Norris was there, watching, and told Anne afterward that, far from being terrified, these monks went joyfully to their deaths. He spared her the grim details, and she could barely imagine what it had been like to be dragged on hurdles through the streets, hanged until they were half dead, then cut down to suffer the horrors of castration, disemboweling, and decapitation. At least they had been unaware of their bodies being hacked into quarters, to be publicly exhibited.
“How did the people react?” she asked.
Norris winced.
“They blamed me,” she whispered. His nod was imperceptible, his eyes full of compassion. She turned away. She must not think of what Norris meant to her. If she did, she might break.
—
That week, Henry had the oath put again to Fisher and More, and again they refused to take it.
“They are traitors and deserve death,” Anne reminded him, again and again, desperate for their voices to be silenced forever.
“They will be tried,” he told her, his expression grave. “The law will take its course.”
/> “No one must challenge the legitimacy of our son,” she said.
He looked at her, his eyes widening. “Our son?”
“Sir, I am with child!” she told him triumphantly, barely sure of it herself, but so desperate to be restored to his love and esteem that she could not contain herself.
He took her hand and kissed it. “I thank God,” he declared. “You must look after yourself, Anne. We dare not risk losing this one.” It was not quite the reaction she had wanted, but it signaled a new beginning, she hoped.
Luck was again with her, she told herself. She was looking daily for George’s return from another embassy to France, hoping that he had managed to persuade King François to agree to Elizabeth marrying the Duke of Angoulême. But one glance at his face when he arrived at Greenwich told her that he had failed.
“How dare François slight me like this!” she seethed.
She would not let her disappointment spoil her joy in the coming child. She arranged feasts and sports and dancing, and as her mood lightened, so did Henry’s. The change in him she had prayed for was dawning. And while she danced, ten Carthusian monks, having refused to acknowledge the royal supremacy, were chained, standing upright, to posts and left to die of starvation, by the King’s order.
Let that serve as an example to her enemies. It was a pity Henry had not chained Fisher and More to die with them. But she would have her way. She laid on a lavish banquet for Henry at the grand house he had given her at Hanworth, twelve miles from London. The fine sweet wine of Anjou that he loved was poured in abundance, and soon he was drunk, throwing his arm about her, kissing her heartily and patting her belly in front of the company.
“There are those who would have me put away,” she murmured in his ear. “While they live, spreading their vile sedition, this little fellow I carry will never be secure in his title.”
“Of whom do you speak, darling?” Henry asked, slurring his words.