Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  Henry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and peered at de Langey over folded hands. I glanced from one to the other, thoroughly enjoying watching these two strong-willed men, who otherwise displayed every aspect of friendly respect for one another, prepare to play cat and mouse over the sale of these extravagant items.

  “How did this rare and beautiful jewel come into your possession, Seigneur de Langey?” Henry asked.

  “Ah, oui, Your Grace. It was brought to my attention by my brother, your ambassador. He was in attendance, along with Alessandro de Medici, at a dinner given in a noble’s palazzo in Florence some months ago, where it was the topic of conversation. This piece had been commissioned by, made for, and personally owned by Alessandro’s grandfather, Lorenzo Il Magnifico.”

  It was obvious that the Seigneur had achieved the first attaint in the negotiation. Whether the French noble knew it or not, Henry had long been fascinated by the life and accomplishments of the great humanist, Lorenzo de Medici. The possibility of owning one of his personal possessions would be seductive indeed.

  “And what are you asking for the purchase of this cross, Seigneur?”

  “Your Majesty, if I am to be compensated in accord with what I paid for this precious item, its price would be no less than 12,000 crowns.”

  Henry snorted and shook his head. “It is a grand gem to be sure, Monsieur de Langey, but that is an exorbitant sum.”

  Never wavering from the coolness of his regal bearing, he waited for de Langey’s response.

  Seigneur de Langey hesitated for just the right length of time, then nodded in agreement. “Vous avez raison, Your Highness. It is a costly piece. And I am well aware that you have many expensive diplomatic and political missions underway. They must be draining your coffers considerably.”

  A further calculated pause. Then de Langey shrugged, “Pas de problème, Your Grace. Fortunately for me, I do have another interested buyer.”

  “Indeed? And who might that be?” Henry demanded with an imperious lift of his brows.

  “Why, that would be your Imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, Sire.” Our artful salesman afforded Henry an indulgent smile. “He admired it just the other day, and indicated that he may purchase the jewel on behalf of his master, the Emperor Charles.”

  I credited the man for his boldness! Or perhaps he did not realize that he played with fire in baiting Henry so?

  Henry kept his expression impassive, then surrendered. “In that case, Monsieur, I will purchase this item from you for the requested 12,000 crowns. And I wish to purchase the solitary diamond as well. And for that, I will offer you 2,000 crowns and not a penny more. Shall we agree to a total of 14,000 crowns with a handshake? I am certain such an arrangement will be pleasing to you - if ought else you will have the pride of seeing these very jewels on our person when you next seek to visit England.”

  A moment’s equivocation was all it took, and then de Langey rose, swept his feathered hat from his head with a deep bow, and said, “It is my great honour, Your Majesty, to sell you both of these incomparable jewels for 14,000 crowns.”

  Henry stood as well and clasped de Langey’s hand without rancour, delighted with his new acquisitions. As soon as the nobleman had departed, he slyly said to me, “A pleasant man but a brigand in negotiation none the less …These, my love, will be placed in safe keeping for a very special day. Do you know what day that will be?”

  “I cannot fathom, Your Grace, what might be important enough for such extravagant and rare jewels. Unless they might be bestowed on the son we will have one day?”

  “They will indeed belong to our son eventually, God willing. But before that day arrives, Anne, they will be worn by you on the occasion of your coronation as Queen of England and may that be imminent.”

  I went to him and kissed him, praying that with one kiss I could convey the promise of all which was to come.

  While at Greenwich for Christmastide, Henry and his master builders had worked on structural plans for the renovation of York Place. He sent the plans to York, along with numerous books on classical buildings and structures. We spent pleasant hours together poring over those designs and debating what should be included and where, as well as discussing the style and substance of the interior and exterior decoration. I found myself particularly captivated by the structural drawings. They appealed to my sense of logic, and becoming absorbed in them offered a welcome respite from the emotional turmoil of the Great Matter.

  The new palace was to be the epitome of luxurious city living, providing easy access for Henry and his Council to Westminster and Parliament, and leading directly into London’s centre via The Strand. It would be a destination for entertainment and recreation, having advanced kitchens and baynes for bathing in comfort, with a network of privy chambers, even some secret chambers tucked behind the privy chambers which would be accessible only to Henry and his Groom of the Stool. This new design would allow the King his much needed and increasingly desired privacy.

  A new and much more expansive quay on the Thames was to be constructed, along with a bridge and stair leading directly to the privy chambers reserved for the exclusive use of the King and his family. On the western side of the palace would be an elaborate tiltyard with an enclosed gallery for viewing tournaments while, of course, there would be tennis plays both small and large, a yard in which to play bowls, a pheasant field and fantastic gardens. King Street would divide the eastern and western halves of the palace. Spanning the road, a large and imposing gatehouse would be built, featuring a tower on each side. The brick towers were to be pierced by tall windows to flood their rooms with light.

  Soon I was buried in textile samples, colour palettes, drawings and books from which I selected patterns, fabrics, designs for the creation of grotesques after the Italian fashion, mural ideas, and colours for the interior, beginning with the reconstruction of my apartments, which would then be enlarged into a maze of new rooms and galleries comprising the Queen’s lodgings. I worked on this project with the happy confidence that I was designing Queen’s apartments for myself, not Katherine. This was to be Henry’s and my special residence. In fact, I secretly hoped Katherine would never step an unwelcome foot over the palace threshold.

  Dr Cranmer had completed the book requested by Henry in October. Henry and I eagerly read through it, and I was imbued with a profound sense of calm upon understanding the reasoning with which Cranmer presented his various arguments in favour of allowing Henry to divorce Katherine and remarry.

  In addition to articulating his opinion, Cranmer had excerpted sources as wide-ranging as Aristotle and Plato, Saint Thomas Aquinas, scripture, legal cases from England and abroad, and quotes from notable clerical and lay councillors. At last, in front of our eyes, was presented clear and irrefutable evidence impeccably assembled by a brilliant mind, that Henry, as a king ordained, was rightful in making his own decisions and had no obligation to seek the Pope’s authority. Cranmer went so far as to postulate on the Pope’s grievous error in contradicting Scripture, which was the rightful word of God. I almost cried with relief.

  The next step was to gain support from the most learned minds in England and across the Continent. Thus, an operation was begun to provide the greatest universities with Dr Cranmer’s findings, and seek their concurrence as indicated by affirmative votes. Selected to pursue this critical objective were Stephen Gardiner, Henry’s Secretary, and Dr Edward Foxe, then Provost of King’s College. Well schooled in his findings, they were to represent convincingly Dr Cranmer’s position to the academics at Cambridge. Due to both Cranmer’s and Foxe’s association with that esteemed place of learning, it was believed by all that an affirmative reply would be forthcoming and rapid.

  It was most disappointing, therefore, when the days and weeks dragged on without the anticipated outcome. I watched Henry restlessly pace the floors of the Long Gallery, awaiting from the Cambridge schola
rs the arguments for and against his Great Matter. His anxiety was palpable, and I knew just what he was feeling – each day a bit older; the imaginings of holding a baby son in his arms seemingly ever more remote. A letter, at last, arrived, which named the theologians chosen to comprise the voting body. Next to certain names, Gardiner had entered an ‘A’, communicating his knowledge that these men were already in agreement. It appeared there were enough annotated names to carry a majority vote and to position Cambridge in favour of Henry.

  My father, who had been appointed Lord Privy Seal by Henry in January, was sent to Paris on an assignment to meet with the administrators of the Sorbonne and attain their agreement to Cranmer’s position. Affirmation by the Sorbonne was critical in lending the kind of credence needed to gain the support of other major European universities. From there he would travel to the Auvergne region in south-central France where he would pay diplomatic courtesy to François while confirming his promised support. Following that meeting, Father was to continue to Bologna and, in an audience with Pope Clement and Emperor Charles, attempt to convince them of the verity of Cranmer’s argument. The trip was daunting, and my father not a young man, but I knew he would use his mighty determination and all his skill to obtain the desired result for his King.

  Leaving the relevant documents with members of the Sorbonne faculty for their thorough review, my father met with François, then made his way to Bologna to see the Pope and the Emperor. It was an exhausting journey, and we were informed that his health indeed suffered. However, true to my prediction, he completed the steps of his task as planned. But, it seemed, to no avail.

  By the middle of February, Henry and I received word from Father that both the Emperor and the Pope were uncompromising in their disagreement with the assertions Cranmer had put forth. They were, and would remain, unyielding.

  Henry stood in the library holding the letter, with his back to me. I waited long for him to speak. When he did not turn to me, I said quietly, “Henry. It is over.”

  At this, he whirled around and faced me with alarm. “What say you, Anne?”

  “I speak of your relentless pursuit of the Pope’s approval. Your futile desire that he agree with your decisions and your actions. Can you not see that the time has finally come to cast him aside? You must know now that he does not support you, and never will. He is not your ‘Holy Father’. The word of Giulio Medici, elected Pope Clement VII by his fraternity of corrupt clergy, does not determine the fate of your eternal soul, Henry. You are a King born and ordained! That privilege belongs to God, and only to God. You must remove him from being an obstacle between you and the personal truths you reveal to your Almighty Lord.” I spoke gently, but the intent of my words was unrelentingly clear.

  I went to him, taking his hands in mine and, eye to eye, searched the core of his being.

  We looked into each other’s soul, and I knew then that he would stand on his own. I also knew the understanding which had been reached between us at that very moment would change the course of history for England.

  Windsor

  Spring 1530

  Once Henry recognized the complicity which existed against him between Emperor Charles and Pope Clement VII, I observed his attitude change significantly. On 24 February, Clement crowned Charles I of Spain as Holy Roman Emperor in an elaborate ceremony in Bologna. It was by then obvious that theirs was a political alliance every bit as much as a religious one - Clement would never oppose the Emperor he had just crowned. The longer Henry ruminated on these events, the more outraged he became. He threatened to withdraw his diplomatic ambassadors from Spain and blustered that he would be happy if Charles did the same since he had little liking for the unctuous Eustace Chapuys.

  Dr Cranmer continued seeking approvals from the major universities in Italy while my brother sought them in France. As the weather warmed, so did our hope. Affirmative verdicts were received from Bologna, Ferrara, Padua, and Pavia, although not, it must be said, without difficulty. In France, another group of agreements was handed down from Orléans, Angers, and Bourges. We were encouraged, yet most anxiously awaited a favourable verdict from the cornerstone, the Sorbonne.

  “Anne, will you want to leave at least some of your hunting apparel here?” Maggie called to me from my wardrobe closet. I was in the adjacent room, selecting gowns and accessories to pack for our return to York Place. I had accomplished very little because Jolie had been doing her best to lure me into a game in which she liked to race back and forth and streak through the rooms of the apartment like a white arrow. It seemed the game was not fun for her unless I watched the entire thing.

  Once the greyhound darting had subsided, I reviewed what Maggie had selected. She was an enormous help in organizing and cataloguing my growing collection of clothing and jewellery. Never would I have thought I would require help in keeping track of my articles of clothing, jewellery, and headgear! But thanks to Henry’s incredible largesse, I needed a wardrobe assistant, and Maggie was the person perfectly suited to maintaining order. If ever I became Queen, I would ask her to fill an official position of Mistress of the Wardrobe.

  “I think I will leave more garments behind than I have previously, Maggie. I know Henry will want to take advantage of Windsor Park in high hunting season, and by now I feel more confident that I will return here with him,” I said.

  “I could do no more than agree with you on that point,” Maggie quipped, pointedly eyeing the magnificent riding kirtle and jacket Henry had just given me, which matched a gorgeous new black and gold saddle that had been delivered the day before, in advance of our trip. The saddle was a special one, indeed.

  It was designed for two people to ride pillion.

  On the cloudless morning of 9 May, Henry and I, flanked by assorted servants and courtiers, were ready to depart Windsor. The townsfolk had been assembling since daybreak in the hope of seeing the King in all his splendour as he rode by. None of them, I wager, expected what came into view once the standard bearers, equerries, and pages had passed. There were Henry and I riding together, our bodies pressed against each other’s as we rode pillion on his big black warhorse through the town and countryside. I smiled to myself with great satisfaction: I had been reliably informed that Henry had never ridden this way with Katherine, even in their early years of marriage.

  Oh, it surely was scandalous! The townsfolk’s expressions were rich as they first delighted in seeing their Monarch, then saw me with my arms about Henry as he held the reins. For once, though, I did not care a jot. I intended to enjoy the ride. The heat of Henry’s strong body next to mine, and our ability to talk privily with one another as we rode, to say nothing of the gorgeousness of my attire and Henry’s - what damsel would not bask in such an experience?

  It was delightful settling back in at York Place. In the time since we had last been at York, a great deal of progress had been made renovating our apartments. Because of my involvement with the design of the new palace, and because Katherine would have no residence there, it had begun to feel like home to me. The first week was filled with domestic matters, and Henry received few visitors. We moved into the newly refurbished apartments and talked endlessly about how it would look once all of the building and renovating were completed.

  We installed new kitchen staff, including an inspired Frenchman as chief cook. He discussed with me his desire to create a cuisine which was nouveau, and I gave him permission to try his concept and see how it was received. With a grateful smile and a bow so low the flamboyant feather on the brim of his toque swept the floor, he rushed off to seek new and exotic ingredients for his menu. After that, on a daily basis deliveries were made, often fresh strawberries and herbs of all varieties sent by Jasper, the head gardener at Beaulieu. One day, Lord Berkeley sent Henry a gift of a freshly caught sturgeon. The cook was beside himself with joy at this addition to his kitchen’s fare. He concocted a fantastic dish from the creature, with its roasted flesh finely cho
pped and combined with onion and herbes fines, mixed with butter, then brilliantly reformed in the shape of the fish. I will say we benefitted greatly from his skill since all his dishes were superb.

  If I closed my eyes, I could indulge in the enchanting illusion of Henry and me living in domestic bliss. We took our meals together, read together, and enjoyed simple pleasures like gambolling with our dogs. Henry had called for his spaniel puppy named Cut to be brought to him from Greenwich, and two days later was much relieved when a yeoman steward also brought his favourite deerhound, Ball, back after having been lost in Waltham forest for several days. We laughed to ourselves about how we must have looked when we walked in the gardens, followed by a veritable pack of dogs comprising all shapes and sizes!

  Came Sunday, the first day of June, and Henry and I were walking through the cloister after morning Mass. I was feeling somewhat melancholy because Henry planned to return soon to Greenwich and remain there for a time. He had much to attend to and thought it best if I stayed at York overseeing construction while he conducted affairs of state from Greenwich. I would see him whenever he chose to be rowed back to York, but the lovely fantasy of Henry and I as husband and wife had once again evaporated.

  As we paused for a moment at the door to my apartments, he said, “Oh, Anne! I have something for you.” And reaching into the pocket of his leather jerkin, he withdrew a splendid, small book. It was just large enough to fit comfortably in the hand and was gorgeously bound in soft white goatskin. was imprinted on the cover in gold amidst gold scrollwork.

  “This has long been one of my favourite Books of Hours, and I would like you to have it, my love,” he said, and with a departing kiss, I entered my chamber while Henry continued on.

  Once at my desk, I inspected the book more closely. The binding was artistically done, and the pages of fine, smooth vellum felt silken to the touch. I had seen books of hours similar to this one when I was at the Austrian Court. The most beautiful and costly ones were usually made in Bruges, where the monks and the artisans were the most talented illuminators in the world. I pored over illustrations which were incredible in their intricate detail and dazzling colour. Every page seemed more gorgeously done than the last. Fanciful representations of Bible stories and proverbs leapt from the pages: brilliant with striking greens, deep blues, vivid scarlet, and liberal use of gold. Slowly I turned page after page, fascinated by the finely wrought paintings and beautifully done script. I was more than halfway through the book when I turned to a page on which a scourged and bleeding Christ kneeled before an open tomb: the Christ of Sorrows. At first, I was consumed by the heartrending sadness on the face of Jesus but, on scanning the rest of the page, I saw a notation in French at its foot. Looking more closely I saw it was Henry’s writing, carefully and precisely executed. I took the book to the window and held it to the light. The notation read: