Anne the Warrior

by Leigh Jenkins

  We had spent a week, eating off the food in Calais, before the boats bearing the last shipment of sheep appeared and we were prepared to march towards Paris. This was not the first time I had taken this road, having met with Francis many times in his lands, and having attacked France once before when I had just reached my majority and taken hold of the throne. But the journey toward Boulogne that had taken me a week in my youth now took two. Though the ladies had stayed behind, the nobles who traveled with me had grown used to a level of comfort that was not conducive to an army; I even admitted that my own tent and entourage delayed the entire train for over a day due to a snapped tent pole.

  Even with my carefully planning, the cooks still had issues acquiring food. Meat and ale we had aplenty, but Cromwell and I had planned to buy food from the farms that surrounded Calais and Guînes to support the army – a poor plan it turned out, thanks to the late winter frost that had frozen many of the vegetables and fruits we had planned to buy. Using the extra sheep would only work for so long; in due time we would be out of meat as well, sooner than planned. I could only hope that as we moved south the food would be more plentiful.

  And the letters that flowed from England. I had left Bishop Stephen Gardiner in charge, along with Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer. In the absence of my steady leadership, these men had begun to bark at one another like dogs, Cranmer and Gardiner in particular. I had been gone from England no more than a week when I received the first letter from Bishop Gardiner, proclaiming that the sermon Cranmer had preached the week before was heretical. I did not even have to write to Cromwell, for another message appeared within the hour from Cranmer, claiming that false charges had been brought against him. Fortunately he had included a copy of his sermon so I could rule from afar.

  But the accusations did not stop there. Any minor nobles and all churchman began to take sides; there were nights that I would burn three candles simply reading the letters and missives being sent to me. More than one morning the camp was packed away, all save my tent, with me inside frantically dictating to my secretary as the troops stood listlessly around.

  I had never had these problems before. Before there had been Cardinal Wolsey, a stubborn man who had turned traitor in the end, but a good delegator. As long as he had been alive I had never been burdened with these minor squabbles, the actual drudgery that came with leadership. And now Cromwell, who I had hoped would fill his role, had fallen in amongst the rabble and was writing me twice as many letters as anyone else, only half of what he wrote necessary for me to hear.

  With all of this, it took three weeks for them to come to me to tell me of the desertions. Twelve men alone had been hung in the last week for trying to return home; twice that number had probably escaped. Charles had come flying into my tent once he had heard, delaying my morning letter writing.

  “By God, Your Majesty,” he said, the flap of the curtain flying open as he strode in. Upon seeing my secretary at the desk, he dropped into a belated bow which I waved him out of quickly. My oldest friend and most amiable courtier, if Charles was angry I was in trouble indeed.

  “Step outside,” I said to my secretary, who dropped his quill midsentence, bowed, and left.

  “Your Majesty, there must be an end to this madness,” Charles said quickly once we were alone. “The men grow restless, there are reports that Francis had flanked us entirely and prepares to attack us from behind, or worse, take Calais while we sit here uselessly. And for what?”

  I did not dignify him with an answer, and instead gestured to the piles of letters that littered my table. Charles made to grab the first one in the pile, then pulled back as if he saw a snake among the papers. I nodded my head, and then, with my permission, he picked up the first.

  “Your Majesty by proof of article three in the bishop’s law, I claim that the Archbishop …” Charles muttered before picking up the letter that lay beneath it.

  “Your Majesty, it is clear the Bishop Gardiner has falsified testimony from the servant in Lord Branthon’s home …” I gave Charles a minute, before he looked up at me, shock written across his features.

  “By God, do these men not realize we are at war?”

  I could not help the laugh that escaped me; even when angry Charles could find a way to cheer me.

  “You must remember that these are men of the church, who have never been to war,” I reminded him, taking a sip of ale from the goblet next to me.

  “Surely it would have been simpler to have left merely Cromwell or Cranmer in charge,” Charles said, throwing the letters back down onto the desk.

  “Simpler, yes,” I answered. “But Charles, you know as well as I that I could not leave either of those men alone, without someone to oppose them.”

  Charles glanced at me and nodded.

  “No, we would return to a Lutheran England,” he agreed quietly. There was no point in my chiding him for this analysis; he was correct. For all of Cranmer and Cromwell’s value to me, if unchecked those men would change the face of my country, and lead it into heretical ruin.

  “But must you have left Bishop Gardiner in charge?” Charles continued with a sigh.

  “He is the leader of the opposition,” I argued. “And a powerfully clever man. He may be a political snake, but he will not let Cranmer turn the tide of the church.”

  “Well surely something must be done about these letters,” Charles said. “These accusations cannot continue, and the men grow restless. There must be someone who can control these men.”

  “You think of the man and I will send him,” I responded.

  Charles was silent for a moment, his gaze pouring over the piles of letters that littered my desk. Finally, he reached out to one letter that sat along the side, taping a middle line with his finger.

  “Your Majesty, there is always the Queen.”

  He was looking at a letter from my daughter Mary, a pleasant distraction, even if her main purpose in writing was to complain of Cranmer. But at least her letter had held tastes of home, and even a small line about Anne learning to play bowls.

  I sighed at Charles suggestion.

  “Do not be ridiculous, Charles.”

  “I do not believe I am,” he argued back. “I am not saying she will handle the proceedings, nor even follow what the men are saying. But I do believe that both Gardiner and Cromwell, in their eagerness to please the queen, would at least retreat. These shouting matches happening in the regency council meetings would no longer occur. I could not see Gardiner daring to raise his voice to royalty, or Cromwell cursing in front of his precious princess.”

  It was a valid notion. These men had been trained to be kind and gentle in front of ladies. Gardiner especially would be careful with what he said before her. Cromwell might think of her as an ally, but Charles was right, I doubted that Anne would understand what was being said, much less be an asset.

  “Very well,” I said. “I will write to Cromwell and to Her Majesty, informing them that Queen Anne will attend the regency council meetings from now on. And I will also order that all cases of heresy will be taken to her. She barely speaks the language. I doubt Gardiner will know how to present a case to her.”

  Charles smiled, pleased that I had taken his suggestion.

  “Now order the men to pack this up. We will leave within the hour,” I continued. “And tell that secretary to get back in here quick. We will send off our orders today. And who knows. Maybe the Queen will have a stable influence after all.”

  ***

  Charles was correct. The letters did lessen. I had never expected them to disappear completely, nor should they have; Cromwell kept me informed of all decisions made by the council. However, the accusations, the endless lists of witnesses’ statements, and the angry missives stopped completely, I heard nothing more beyond the daily dictated letters from Cromwell on what had been discussed by the council.

  But even the lack of papers from home did not fully free our army. We still made our way slowly into France, as scouts looke
d for Francis’ army and failing. At times I thought we were merely going in circles, though the captain of my guard, a sturdy man from Wales named Owaine, assured me that we were not. It took another ten days, with another two dozen desertions, for us to find Francis’ army.

  The land at least, was in our favor. We had managed to stumble onto the high ground and our archers felt confident. The highest hill had already been scouted and determined a good position for me to direct the battle from; even I knew that allowing me to lead the charge in my condition would be lunacy. Charles would actually lead the men, with Norfolk directing the archers from behind, and his son, the Earl of Surrey, leading the important left flank that should crest a small hill and surprise the enemy.

  The Earl was an impulsive lad, who at twenty-three had never seen battle. I, however, knew that his courage was unmatched, and that he would lead the men, thinking not of death, but of riches. In some ways a headstrong youth who did not know what he was running toward would be better than a jaded veteran who understood the slaughter that was to come. Besides, the Earl would not need to hold the line, merely get the men over the crest of the hill. Once they found the enemy they would be close enough to look to Charles Brandon for guidance.

  It was the night before battle when the messenger from England found us. There had been two days without letters; we found later that the boy had ridden in circles around our army looking for us, constantly being given bad directions by the French peasants he encountered. I immediately opened the papers from Cromwell, scanning them to see that little had been decided in the past few days, but that the ships I had ordered had finally been completed and set sail to join the small navy we had managed to procure. Currently, the admiral had orders to search for the Spanish ships that had been rumored to be heading to England.

  It was not until that night that I looked at the letter from Anne. The page assigned to attend me that evening, a young boy with sandy blonde hair named Geoffrey, had already fallen asleep on the straw pallet placed at the foot of my bed. If I was at home, I would have already slipped into one of my four poster beds to read the letter, but I eyed my monstrosity of a traveling bed with disgust. A wooden frame with vast interwoven ropes to support a thin feather mattress, it was not even large enough for me turn over in comfortably. I instead remained at my desk until I was forced to climb into the creaking bed that would strain underneath my weight.

  The first thing I noticed was that she must have dictated the letter. The English was too good, and I knew she could not write more than her name anyways. I smiled a bit, thinking of the poor secretary who was assigned to her, trying to translate her broken words into what would be fit for a king to read. I sighed and looked down, determined that I would finish the letter before bed.

  Her greeting was too formal, and the first paragraph contained nothing of interest. However, I was pleased to read next that Edward had safely returned to his establishment at Richmond Palace, and that he was so happy to have seen me sail away from the harbor on the way to battle. Remembering him with the toy sword his sister Mary had presented him with at Easter brought a smile to my face. He would be a fine soldier someday.

  The next line gave me pause however. I hope it pleases your Majesty that I have retained the Lady Elizabeth here with me, to oversee her instruction in the necessary art of becoming a lady, as well as her tutorage. What was there that Anne could teach Elizabeth, my brilliant daughter who could already speak four languages? I supposed there was no harm in letting Elizabeth remain with the court, however. Mary was staying as well and would be a calming influence, perhaps even a helpful one.

  As I continued to read I understood that Mary had done just that – she had always been fond of her younger sister and was now teaching her the dances popular at court, as well as overseeing her music lessons. It seemed my oldest daughter was blossoming at court, pleased to be a help to someone.

  I am so happy that your Majesty has allowed me to attend the regency council meetings. The petty squabbling that dominated these meetings has ceased since I ruled that Archbishop Cranmer’s sermon, while not heretical, should have more strictly adhered to the Bishop’s Book. I also approved of Bishop Gardiner’s prayer for Your Majesty’s army, choosing that instead of the Archbishop’s, which seemed to please the Bishop.

  I had to read those lines twice. When I had ordered that Anne join the council and commanded that all heretical accusations were to be judged by her, I did not dream that she would actually take charge of any cases, thinking this would frustrate the bishops. And it seemed she had not only ruled, but ruled well. I quickly placed her letter down and looked through the last three letters from Cromwell but could find no word of these proceedings anywhere. While I had not ordered him to appraise of me of the Queen’s actions, I thought he would do so without prompt. It seemed that I was wrong in that case, and that his frustration at Bishop Gardiner’s charges being given credence had silenced his tongue. Finding nothing, I went back to Anne’s letter.

  Your Majesty, since hearing the cases, four charges have been brought to me by Lord Cromwell accusing subjects of heresy. In all cases, he recommended burning at the stake. In each case, these subjects, both men and women, had attended a form of discreet mass. In no case had they preached or coerced anyone into attending with them. I ruled that all the pieces of idolatry were to be removed from their possession and a fine was imposed upon all members of the household that attended the mass. Three charges have been brought to me by Bishop Gardiner, two men spreading Lutheran ideals, and one woman, heavy with child, who owned a banned book. In all cases, he recommended burning at the stake. I ruled that none should be put to death, however, the banned teachings were confiscated and destroyed and the two men who were actively teaching now reside in the Tower. They are foreigners, and I believe expulsion from the Kingdom would be more fitting.

  I gaped at the page. This was the first time heretical rulings had been decided without my having any knowledge of them since the creation of the Church of England. Anne had acted swiftly, and with too much mercy. Had I been in attendance, all guilty parties would have been burned at the stake and their belongings confiscated by the crown. I could not believe that neither Cromwell nor Bishop Gardiner had mentioned this to me.

  But then how could they? As I stopped to think, I realized that neither man could reveal what had happened without sharing his own disappointments with me. And that is when the brilliance of what Anne had done shone through – both sides had been disciplined, but not so heavily that there could be any cause for complaint. If her goal was to keep the men from troubling me with these matters, then she could not have done better. But if her goal had been to keep order in the kingdom and keep heresy from spreading, then she had acted poorly. These matters should have been dealt with swiftly and severely to keep them from spreading.

  I quickly read the rest of her letter but could not divine the purpose behind her actions; she merely mentioned the flowers that had bloomed at St. James Palace where she was currently residing. Sighing, I tossed it onto my desk and turned toward my sorry bed. I would have to look to England after the battle had been won.

  Chapter Five

  April, 1540

  I was awakened before dawn so that I might position myself on the tall hill before the battle. My captain of the guard, Owaine, stayed by my side, leaning forward slightly in his saddle, scanning the valley below us for anything that could be a threat to me. A relatively young man for the post, his bright red hair betrayed him as Welsh, and his fair skin was already burnt from the past few weeks in the saddle. He would not watch this battle as I would, nor as any other commander would. His vision was merely locked onto what could bring me harm and how best to remove me from any situation that could be too risky. As a younger man I would have chaffed under these restrictions, but I was now wearily complacent.

  Following his gaze I looked out to where the battle would take place. From atop my hill, I could see the few trees that would shelter me from fire an
d knew there was no easy road for the French to climb to my location. The oak trees were littered with small birds that had begun to sing, knowing that dawn was well on its way. Below the tree lines I could see Suffolk lining his men up for battle, their long pikes obscuring the ranks so they looked merely like a collection of brown reeds. Over to the right flank the archers had already prepared themselves to cover the charge.

  Though I could not see him, I knew the Earl of Surrey was in place beyond a slight crest of a hill to my left. His numbers were smaller than Suffolk’s, but his father assured me these were the best soldiers that could be found; he would leave his eldest son with nothing less. Even if Surrey’s courage failed, these men would not.

  The sun had not yet risen when I saw the fires that lit the enemies camp begin to extinguish. I doubted the cowardly French were planning on charging. It would be nonsensical for them to do so, running uphill into first an onslaught of arrows, only to land upon the pikes held aloft by my soldiers. Knowing the French would not be so suicidal, we planned to run our men immediately down the hill across the small plain to where the French would be. Though most of their camp was obscured by trees, before them was a field, flat and wide, where they could come out to meet my men.

  The pikes below me swayed like reeds in the breeze as the men moved anxiously, attempting to warm themselves before the charge. It was proving to be one of the last cold days of the season, which would hopefully assist the men during the battle; there would be no one collapsing from exertion and the heat of their heavy armor.

  Almost as if they were preparing a warning, the birds’ songs suddenly died off, all save one, which hit a shrill high note. Just as the sound ceased, the first ray of dawn burst out from just beyond the archer’s hill and suddenly a loud roar came from the enemies’ camp.