Anne the Warrior

by Leigh Jenkins

  “I believe an army is necessary,” Cromwell answered. “But I would not suggest sending them abroad.”

  “Then who would you suggest we attack?” Norfolk responded, his wrinkled face scrunching in frustration. “An army at home cannot attack anyone, nor anything.”

  “I believe it would be best to build up the defenses here in England,” Cromwell argued. “And allow the enemy to come to us. Only King Francis is prepared to actually attack. And I believe he can be bought with a succession of territory —“

  “What?” Norfolk roared, slapping the table in front of him. “You suggest giving up Tourni?”

  “No, Your Grace,” Cromwell responded evenly. “I suggest giving up Calais.”

  Even I was stunned at the length Cromwell was prepared to go. After a beat of silence, Cromwell continued.

  “Your Majesty, an army can be called up, but war is expensive. The treasury is already in ruins.”

  “The treasury will fill back up with the gold taken from France,” Norfolk grumbled.

  “Yes, if we can reach Paris,” Cromwell snapped.

  “Paris was captured by King Henry the V,” Norfolk responded. “I do not see why it should seem so impossible to you.”

  “Your Majesty,” Cromwell said, turning towards me in an effort to block out Norfolk. “War is risky. Though the treasury is still supported by the dissolution of the Monasteries, money from the old religious homes will not continue forever. To agitate the French and Spanish together could spell disaster for the kingdom. No king, not even the impressive Henry the V, ever attacked both countries at once.”

  It seemed perfectly clear to me that Cromwell favored aversion to war while both dukes supported it. I glanced at Charles Brandon, who raised his eyebrows in a clear message – this was my decision.

  I had to admit that Cromwell was correct. But I had longed for military glory my entire life, to be remembered as the great King Henrys before me had. King Henry the II and King Henry the V had both won major victories in France. My own father, King Henry the VII, was known for winning the Battle of Bosworth and bringing our country’s civil war to an end. And with these victories had come riches and glory. All kings would be remembered; it was how I would be remembered that concerned me.

  I allowed my mind to wander back to Anne, her eyes flaming in the candlelight as she urged me to act. Boats, she had said. A large army, trained, and without assistance. Our own miracles. My face curled into a small smile as I made my decision.

  “Call together the Privy Council and announce we have decided on war. We will attack France after the Easter festivities.”

  Chapter Three

  April, 1540

  For the first time, Lent seemed to pass quickly. The Privy Council, which mostly consisted of nobles who came out against Cromwell’s ideas for peace more because they came from Cromwell than anything else, acted swiftly. Money was soon found so that an army might be raised; Parliament was even called to meet the week after Easter so that war could be officially declared and men called up. I could not remember a Parliament so quickly called together, or the men so willing to serve.

  Individual nobles left the court to ride out to their lands and call men together. While the funds to pay these men might come from my Privy purse or from Parliament, it was the tenants of the nobles who would create the bulk of my force, men who rode out under the standard of the Duke of Suffolk or the Earl of Winchester. Each noble was required to call up a certain number of men based on his rank. As I had expected, the Duke of Norfolk appeared with twice the number of men necessary.

  I, meanwhile, worked with Cromwell to prepare the army to move. Cows, sheep, and pigs were purchased, as well as men to guard and watch over the flocks. I could hear Anne’s warning echo through my head. Boats were gathered; some were conscripted into service and some had been used by my father before the Battle of Bosworth. Two new boats had been commissioned for the task of moving the army, and I made sure they were well stocked. Cromwell had even written to a great boat master in Italy, inviting him here to assist us. I was assured the man would arrive before the start of summer.

  I had become so caught up in preparing my army that I did not immediately notice the changes happening in my household. It was not until I took my dinner in full view of the court one week before Easter that I recognized what had happened.

  After spending many weeks away from the court, the dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk were once again in attendance. While not a full court, many men had not only returned with their armies prepared, but had brought their wives to accompany them, something that had not been allowed until a new queen was in residence.

  I was already seated when Anne appeared, Mary only half a pace behind her stepmother. I gave them the compliment of standing with the rest of the court when they arrived and waited while they situated themselves on either side of me. Finally I sat, watching as the two ladies sat down as well, the dukes by them then seating, down the entire table in a continual wave.

  “Your Majesty,” Anne said with a bow of her head. “I am pleased to be dining with you.”

  I did not immediately answer, shocked at her English, her accent barely apparent. Glancing to my left, I saw Mary smiling.

  “Yes, I am afraid I have been quite busy,” I responded.

  “Ah,” she said, making the guttural noise I was used to with her. “Planning a army. I am still very pleased with that.”

  I allowed a small smile to grace my face. Not perfect then.

  “Yes,” Mary cut in. “You have been working quite hard gathering men for an army.” I noticed that she emphasized the “n” before army, gently correcting Anne.

  “Well, I am quite pleased with the numbers thus far,” I allowed, gesturing down the table. “And of course the good Duke of Norfolk has never let me down.”

  “I wish only to be prepared for Your Majesty,” the duke said with a bow of his head. Behind him a number of pages appeared, bearing the great silver plates used to grace my table. In front of the duke, a plate holding a large trout was sat down. A boy leaned in to remove the bones.

  “I have noticed since my return there has been a lack of meat at Your Majesty’s table,” Charles Brandon said from his spot next to Anne. “No more slices of beef in the shape of a fish to claim it is technically allowed for Lent.”

  I scowled at Charles, not pleased he would so tease me in the great hall in front of the ladies, but Mary and Anne merely laughed.

  “Ah, yes,” Anne said, wagging her finger. “Young Lady Mary noticed her father’s lapse right away. We have made sure to go by the words of Archbishop Cranmer, and serve only what he allow for the past weeks.”

  This small speech from Anne stopped me from joining in the laughter. In truth I had not noticed much of what had been eaten in the past weeks, a rarity for me. The court had been so empty, and Cromwell and I so busy, that meals had been taken when they could, and often while working. Now that I thought about it, the lack of red meat and smaller meals could have accounted for the lack of split hose or too-tight jackets in the past week or so.

  “Well, might I say that these new meals agree with both of Your Majesties,” the Duke of Norfolk said, always a courtier. “You both look happier than at even your wedding.”

  Charles eyes grew wide and he snorted into his sleeve before recovering by taking a drink of ale. I glared at him; the Duke of Norfolk knew nothing of how unhappy I had been at my last wedding day.

  “I thank you!” Anne said, oblivious to her neighbor’s poor table manners. “Ah, Your Majesty, I see that more ale is needed.” With that, Anne leaned back in her chair, gesturing to one of the pages. Her communication with the servants of the castle seemed to have improved as well, as he was immediately by my side with another cup of ale, and a replacement for Charles as well.

  And now that Norfolk had brought it to my attention, I did notice that Anne seemed less rotund. Oh, the wide cheeks were still there, and her hips still did not quite fit her dress, but fat wa
s not squeezed out of the small crack between her bodice and sleeves, her shoulders did not puff around the edges of the fabric, and her frame did not lump awkwardly. This could be attributed to good dress making, but also to a small weight loss.

  And not to forget her smile. The first few times I had seen Anne, she had a thin smile, a look something akin to terror constantly on her face. She now seemed happier, more at home, and better prepared for dining with the King of England.

  Before I could even reach for it, a large portion of the trout was cut away and deftly placed onto my silver plate by my daughter Mary. I looked up and smiled at her, pleased when she returned it. The past two years without a queen had meant that I had been without my two daughters as well, as there was no suitable chaperone to watch over them while at court. I was happy she had been returned to me.

  Three sauces soon appeared atop the trout thanks to Anne, who dolloped a small portion of each. She quickly pulled her hands away, as deft at serving me as any page boy.

  “Your Majesty will like the white sauce best, I believe,” she said, looking directly at me. “It is mine favorite.”

  “Have your days with the Lady Mary been pleasant?” I asked, curious as to what these two vastly different women could have talked about.

  “Oh, yes,” Anne answered. “The Lady Mary has been most helpful in my speech. And in urging me to speak to mine ladies as well. They are – not as intimidating as I thought first.” Anne blushed as she spoke these words, as if embarrassed that I knew how frightened she had been.

  “And we have been working on Her Majesty’s skills at cards,” Mary said, before pulling up short. “Not that we have been playing, Your Majesty, as we know it is forbidden. However, we have covered the rules of the games, and Queen Anne has quickly familiarized herself with the cards used.”

  “Yes, after the Easter, I hope Your Majesty will play a game with me,” Anne said, turning towards me.

  “If there is time, sweetheart,” I said, patting the hand she had placed upon my sleeve. Anne smiled at me; a wide, flat smile that bulged her cheeks and made her look unbearably happy. Immediately she let go of my sleeve and turned to place a large slice of bread onto my plate.

  It was not until I looked down at the smirking face of Charles Brandon that I realized what I had said. Sweetheart. My endearment for the women in my life – none had escaped it. And had that not been my goal? To find my sweetheart, the one who was meant to be my companion, to give me sons, and to please me throughout my many days as king?

  I ignored Brandon and resolved to not make such a slip again. She made it too easy, placing the choicest bits onto my plate, smiling at me, and in perfect communication with the pages. Still, I kept smiling and speaking with Anne to a minimum. Though we were preparing for battle, I was still not ready to sleep with her. Her loud bark of a laugh still alarmed, and her table manners, though better, caused Mary to frown in her direction more than once.

  ***

  The next morning I had a rare few hours to myself. Cromwell had ridden out to inspect the newest ship, and I, due to the current downpour covering London, had decided not to accompany him. I had planned to spend the morning reading but could not keep my attention on the pages. I felt I had done nothing but read over the past few weeks while preparing to lead an army for the first time since my twenties.

  In the months after Jane had died I had taken to occasionally walking around the castle, two pages following me. I had learned more about my palaces in those few months than I had ever known before, discovering the kitchen, and surprising more than one maid as she cleaned a lesser noble’s bedroom. But as my grief had lifted, so had my idle feet, my curiosity and incessant need to move both gone.

  But here I was again, two newer page boys to follow along behind, bewildered. Though Easter was near, it was still cool enough outside for me to need a wrap, the rain seemingly penetrating the walls of the castle to force its dreariness upon us.

  The stone hallway was cold and damp, and the unpleasant smell of mildew seemed inescapable. I finally turned into a corridor where every fireplace had been lit, the stone floors had been scrubbed twice over, and servants could be seen hustling from a room on the left.

  Alarmed, the servants saw me in the hall, fell into a bow, and waited until I gestured for them to continue on. The person inside the room did not seem to notice the servants halting out in the corridor and I managed to reach the door without alerting anyone inside.

  I realized quickly that I had found the nursery, where Prince Edward would be staying for the next ten days during the Easter celebrations. It was the first time my son had returned to full court festivities. Now that he was almost two, I considered him to be strong enough to stand the court and its diseases, at least for a week or so.

  I stood against the opposite wall and looked through the doorway, hoping that my distance from the door would keep anyone inside from noticing me. From my vantage point I finally saw Anne in the middle, a large apron covering her new velvet dress. Surrounding her were dozens of servants: maids scrubbing the floor and walls, grooms lifting trunks and a small but elaborate bed about.

  “Oh no, please,” Anne was saying, waving her arms, but careful to not walk across the freshly scrubbed portion of the floor. “No, please, the bed must go against that wall. Not so near the windows.”

  As the grooms followed her instructions, she turned and knelt by a large wooden trunk. Side by side with a maid, she carefully pulled out the linens that had been packed away since Edward’s birth, airing some out, or deeming a few not good enough.

  But even while instructing, Anne wore a smile. Her head ducked down softly in a way that made the grooms feel like they were doing her a favor when they moved the bed for the third time, or that it was her fault the maid had not yet fetched more hot water from the kitchens. There was an ease with which she asked these things, a kindness that I had not seen since I was a child.

  She reminded me of my mother. My mother, whose head would duck just like Anne’s would when giving a request, or who never failed to thank even the lowliest kitchen maid for a favor. It had frustrated my father, who had been brought up away from court, in hiding for half of his life, as his uncle and mother schemed to get him on the throne. Once he had arrived, my father had naturally assumed that everything was now owed to him, and he did not need to thank anyone for anything.

  My mother, however, had been raised at court. She had been the first child of the great King Edward the IV, had been betrothed to various princes abroad before she could walk. But she had also been a princess in time of war. A princess who, with her mother and younger sisters, had been forced for a year to claim sanctuary at Westminster Abbey when her father was deposed. There my mother learned that nothing should ever be expected, that no man was owed anything by the value of his birth. Locked away in four small rooms, my mother had learned what kindness could be.

  Years later, when Edward had died and his brother Richard had stolen the throne, my mother had once again spent years in sanctuary with her family. Even after my young uncles were slain by Richard the III, my mother still spent time in the country and told me there was no reason to visit court. I now knew that she had in fact visited her uncle the king, had danced with him, that some had even whispered she might marry him and become Queen of England.

  But it was not to be. Richard was slain by my father, the rightful king, at the Battle of Bosworth. My mother still became Queen of England – my grandmothers, one deadly ambitious and the other desperate, had come to an agreement. But my mother had still not forgotten those times she had been abandoned by the favor of the court. The times when those courtiers who had claimed to always obey her had turned away, to false kings and queens. And she had learned that in those times, it was often only the servants who could be trusted.

  As I leaned against the cold stones, the fire in a nearby hearth warming my calves, I wondered what had happened to Anne to make her like this. My mother had learned these things in a hard
world, had learned them at the point of a knife. But Anne had seen no war, had known no cruelty. Every inch of her had been sheltered.

  Pulling out a small sleep shirt, Anne held it up to one of the maids, who cooed and fingered the delicate lace trimmings. Smiling, Anne gently pulled the garment away; standing to place it in a large chest of drawers herself. The young maid blushed, but not overly chastised, cheerfully returned to sorting clothes. As I pushed off the cold wall, ready to return to my chambers, I knew that Anne had made a devotee of the girl for life.

  The walk back to my chambers was quick and I was then sufficiently tired and ready to continue reading. But as I sat before a fire, a warm jug of ale by my side, I allowed my mind to drift back to Anne, her gentle chiding, and bashful thanks to the servants. It was a side I did not think I would ever see of her.

  With a rueful smile I looked down to my book. It would have been so easy to miss her best qualities.

  Chapter Four

  April, 1540

  There had been no time for a card game with Anne, nor even a proper good-bye. Word came the day after Easter that despite protests from the Archbishop of Rome, King Francis had called together a large force and declared his intentions to attack Guînes. Though I had no way of knowing it at the time, I sat sail on the same day that Francis had issued a declaration saying that English lands in France were now considered under French rule by the Pope. It heartily cheered the men of Calais, after receiving this declaration in the morning, to see my ships that very afternoon, heavy with troops and prepared for battle with the usurper.

  Our good timing had been my last piece of luck, however. The provisions I had planned on feeding the army with had not arrived in Calais on time and the city grudgingly agreed to feed our troops. I knew this put quite the strain on the purses of Calais’ merchants, and wrote to Cromwell, who remained in England, that restitution must be paid. When I informed Lord Lisle, who was in charge of the garrison of Calais, he blanched white before thanking me. He knew as well as I that it could be years before Cromwell moved quickly enough to pay what was owed.