Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

My ladies accompanied me to the watching chamber. There my mother came to me, stroked my cheek softly once, and murmured, “Anne, how proud I am of you. You look regal, and you carry yourself with dignity. I congratulate you, my daughter.”

  I could not allow tears to ruin my appearance, which had taken so many people a long time to achieve, so I swallowed the lump in my throat. I grasped her hand tightly; gratefully. “Thank you Mother. I could not imagine this day without you.”

  We stepped into procession formation. The Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, attired in doublets and gowns of Tudor green velvet, led the way. Following was my father, the Earl of Wiltshire, accompanied by the French Ambassador Gilles de La Pommeraie. And behind them trailed an assemblage of earls and viscounts.

  We began our stately approach through the long gallery and the King’s waiting chamber. Suddenly I had the most extraordinary feeling of watching the procession from above. It was so strange, and I recalled another occasion upon which I had experienced the same notion – just before the meeting of Henry’s advisors at Hampton Court some time ago. It was so very peculiar; as if I were looking down on myself, and for a long moment it seemed as if this ancient rite was for someone other than me. I took a deep breath, and as I slowly exhaled, regained my counterpoise while Bishop Stephen Gardiner began his walk toward Henry. Garter King at Arms carried the patent, beautifully illuminated on vellum with my new badge: a crowned white falcon, hooked talons dug into a tree stump from which bloomed red and white roses.

  Elizabeth Manners, Countess of Rutland, and Dorothy, Countess of Sussex, preceded me. They looked beautiful in splendid gowns of tawny velvet traced with gold embroidery. Slowly we approached the presence chamber. The room went silent, and the sound of my slippers against the polished wooden floor rang loud and echoed in my ears. Following me and bearing the crimson velvet mantle, heavy with ermine, and the delicate gold coronet was my young cousin, thirteen-year-old Mary Howard, the daughter of the Duke of Norfolk.

  The room was not a large one and was filled with people. Henry stood, waiting for me at the head of the chamber, between two tall windows; the light at his back making him appear even more majestic, more powerful, and more daunting than ever I had witnessed.

  I approached the King; eyes cast down. Just before I knelt at his feet, I glanced up, and his eyes met mine. He did not need to speak to tell me how proud he was of me that day. The Letters Patent of Creation was delivered to me, read by Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. The King laid the mantle about my shoulders and gently placed the golden coronet on my head.

  He said, “Anne Rochford, I invest in you the Patent of Creation as Marchioness of Pembroke. And I hereby grant you and your heirs an annuity of one thousand pounds for life.”

  I arose, heart tripping, and looked long into the King’s face. As slowly and as deeply as I could, I curtsied and said in a clear and distinct voice, “Your Majesty, I swear to you my eternal fealty. And I humbly offer you my immeasurable gratitude and steadfast loyalty.”

  With a nod, Henry released me, and I stepped back to depart amongst the congratulations of the many witnesses. The Countesses accompanied me as I returned to my apartments, where I removed the mantle of estate, replaced it with the velvet surcoat, and was escorted by royal guardsmen to the Chapel of St George for High Mass.

  I was seated beneath the oriel window in the Quire of magnificent St George’s, with Henry near me in the Sovereign’s Stall. The intonation of the Latin Mass, the pungent scent of burning frankincense, the profound significance of the morning’s events all encouraged scenes from the past six years to twist and spiral, unbidden, in my mind. At once marvellous and grievous, the mélange of my life with Henry seemed to mirror England’s turmoil, conveniently hidden from view by the serenity of the chapel. I reflected on the study in contrasts. There stood Bishop Gardiner, the celebrant – I wondered just how reluctant he must have been to participate in honouring me that day, since, despite his efforts on behalf of the Great Matter, I knew he was not in favour of my relationship with Henry. I looked upon Mother and Father beaming with pride and satisfaction at the family’s continued ascent. I thought of the angry refusal of my aunt, who had become my enemy - Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk - to carry my train even though royal protocol demanded it of her as the highest ranking woman in England, aside from the Queen. Across from me sat the studiously reverential Thomas Cromwell, who had so deftly organized the events of the day – I observed him for a time, thinking on the strange dichotomy of opinion in which I held him: so capable yet inscrutable. I recalled the angry public outcry at the recent hanging of a young priest for the crime of filing down gold angelots and reselling the gold: most believing he was hanged at Cromwell’s instigation, simply because he was a cleric in an increasingly anticlerical milieu. My thoughts came unwillingly to rest on Katherine, banished to the More, while her daughter Mary languished at Richmond and their many supporters protested. And this very Mass, being sung in all its glory; while Henry now stood in open defiance of the Pope and the Church.

  I was pulled back to present, hearing the choir sing:

  Te Deum laudamus: te Dominum confitemur.

  Te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur

  We praise Thee, O God: we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord.

  All the earth doth worship Thee and the Father everlasting

  Finally, I contemplated the visit Henry and I were to make to France: a visit designed to introduce me as his future wife and queen. My thoughts lingered there, picturing my meeting with François, and the consultor of my youth, Marguerite, now the Queen of Navarre. The Mass drew to a close, and as it did, I determined to remain lodged firmly in the present, and to enjoy every aspect – nay, every minute! - of Henry’s and my journey together.

  I decided that only after its completion would I allow myself to be again concerned with more troubling matters. Those who continued to threaten our happiness.

  I was gladdened to learn that my good friend, Seigneur Guillaume de Langey, would be visiting Henry and me at the Manor of Hanworth. Ever the charming Frenchman, he brought a present and made a great show of delivering it to me: one far better than the jewels he had given me previously. This time, it was the greatly desired official invitation from his Souverain, François I, that I accompany Henry to France for a visit. Reading the letter, beautifully written in French on creamy vellum, I was so elated I wanted to jump for joy, shout and clap my hands like a little girl. With some effort, though, I regained control and resumed the behaviour befitting a noble lady, rewarding the Seigneur with my sweetest expression while allowing him to press my hand to his lips for an extra long moment so he could fully enjoy my costly French parfum.

  My disposition was so cheery, in fact, that I invited the French ambassadors, La Pommeraie and de Langey, to a festive supper in Henry’s honour at Hanworth, my beautiful new estate. The evening was well timed, because, as we eagerly consumed the mouthwatering delicacies concocted by my master cook newly arrived from Lombardy, the table was alive with animated conversation finalizing plans for the trip. My excitement was almost impossible to contain as I sat at the table with Henry, de Langey and La Pommeraie, Master Cromwell, Arthur Plantagenet and Honor Grenville (Lord and Lady Lisle), and others who would be a part of the group travelling with us to France. Seigneur de Langey revealed that the meeting between the Kings would take place on 20 October in Boulogne, with final preparations by the Duke of Norfolk and the grandmaster of France to be completed a week prior.

  De Langey instructed us that this meeting of the Kings would be quite different from the lavish Field of Cloth of Gold twelve years ago; the presumption being that both monarchs had matured and grown confident in their sovereignty. Hence, there would be no need to compete in wealth or supremacy. Employing his biting and irreverent wit - sharpened, no doubt, by his friendship with the devilish Rabelais – De Langey pronounced while looking directly at Henry, one eyebrow cocked, that the ap
parel worn at this meeting was to be as modest as possible, with no cloth of silver or gold – and there he paused dramatically – save for that worn by His Highness and the ladies, and only if they must! How I loved watching these two spar with one another. Clearly they enjoyed such exchange as well.

  In response, Henry slowly drew himself to his full height and breadth in his seat. “Seigneur, ni argent, ni or soient nécessaire!” I chuckled to myself when I heard Henry brashly declare that neither silver nor gold were necessary. Au contraire; I knew the depth of his penchant for self-adornment!

  Not only in attire, but modesty was also to be strictly maintained when it came to the size of each king’s retinue. De Langey continued, “Your Majesty, he who keeps to these rules most precisely will be henceforth known to the other as the undisputed master at commanding order!”

  At this, a hoot of laughter escaped me while others at the table did their best to cover their mirth. A moment later, an unexpected and especially loud guffaw from Henry had us all in uncontrolled giggles as we recognized how droll the challenge: a competition between two famously ostentatious monarchs in which the victor would be awarded the title of Most Modest!

  Churning unrest in Scotland was proving a distraction for Henry. His nephew, James V, threatened to wage war unless Henry complied with his wishes; among them the release of the body of his father for burial in Scotland. Henry deftly handled the posturing of the young King James, and we continued our preparation to depart for Dover and our crossing. I determined to be a model of constraint, at least when it came to the number of ladies who would accompany me, and selected only twenty-seven of my favourites as traveling companions. Indeed, there were some gossips who tittered about the fact that not all the premier English noblewomen would be a part of my escort, but truly - did I care? Not one whit. It was important to me that this adventure be shared amongst my most loyal friends and family. I was not about to tolerate jealous, disapproving, vicious glances or comments by anyone. No one would discourage my pleasure of this visit.

  Henry had been attending to affairs from Greenwich while I was making ready at York, where my lodgings were well nigh complete, and Henry’s nearly so. Just a week before our departure, my chambers were humming with people delivering items which had been ordered. My chief mercer and dressmaker, Master William Locke, fluttered importantly about the apartments, with his bevy of young apprentices scurrying closely behind, to deliver gowns, cloaks, and hats which they had so beautifully constructed. Master Richard Gressam arrived, bearing a collection of ravishing silk dressing gowns edged in glossy marten fur. These particular gowns were of the utmost importance to me. They were to be worn and admired by Henry, but only by Henry, and only on the most personal of occasions.

  I had determined that it was time to live with him as if we were husband and wife. This was something he had hoped for - longed for - yet he did not know of my decision. I planned to surprise him with the news once we set sail.

  A knock at the door of my inner chamber late one afternoon in the first few days of October revealed a messenger advising that the King would be joining me for supper in my apartments that evening. Since we had been in separate locations for several days, I was excited as a foolish young girl to see him again. My heart skipped happily, thinking about him and his magnetic gaze as he would observe me from head to toe. I scrambled about in preparation, my maids and the ladies who were attending on me rushing as well.

  At six o’clock, Henry was announced, and he and several of his esquires swept into my suite. He looked superb – perhaps more so than I remembered from just days ago if that be possible. One glance confirmed my decision. It felt completely right, and there would be nothing that would dissuade me.

  Henry signalled to me, and we stepped into an inner chamber where we slid our arms about each other and enjoyed a sensual kiss. “Anne, I cannot wait to start our travel to France. I feel as if it will declare a new and positive direction in the long road we have travelled.”

  “Oh darling, how I do agree. Our visit to France must be a foreshadow of what lies ahead for us, Henry. Nothing but happiness - and children!”

  I believed every word.

  “Speaking of children, Anne, I have a gift for you.”

  I protested weakly, not knowing anymore how to respond to the embarrassment of riches Henry had already bestowed upon me.

  “This, sweetheart, is different. You will love it, I know.”

  He summoned his esquires to bring the gift into the room. I saw immediately, although it was draped with a swatch of velvet, that it was a painting. A gilt frame peeked from beneath the cloth. It was set on a chest, velvet draping still in place. “When I first saw this, Anne, it felt very special to me. I believe it will do the same for you.”

  Henry lifted the cloth, and I drew in my breath. Before me was an artwork of such heart-rending beauty that it brought tears to my eyes. I looked at Henry, questioning.

  “It is by the Venetian master Giovanni Bellini. He painted this work seventy years ago, and it was one of his first depictions of the Virgin and Child. They say, even after his death, his painting school in Venice rivals those of Florence and Rome. Bellini painted many Madonnas during his life, but this is widely acknowledged to be one of his most beautiful. Do you like it?”

  Truly, it was so moving I found it difficult even to reply. The top of the painting was arched, framed in a simple golden band, the sky a celestial blue. In the foreground, the Virgin Mary gazed down and to the right, but not so much that one was unable to see her clear azure eyes – such expressive, fine, melancholy eyes. Her face was realistic and astonishing in its delicate beauty, with a deep flush to the cheeks giving her a high colour. The dark hair was covered by a black veil, and she protectively held her son close while He stood on a parapet before her – a babe of robust beauty and delicacy of features equal to hers. In a childlike gesture, He had His forefinger in His mouth but looked steadily at the viewer.

  To own such a treasure!

  “Henry, I cannot possibly know how to thank you. I will cherish it. It will forever be an inspiration to me.”

  With his arm about my shoulders, we silently contemplated the masterpiece.

  As we did so, I sent a silent prayer heavenward that its subject represented a prophecy for me, soon to be fulfilled.

  “This hand must surely bring you a turn of luck, cousin.”

  Sir Francis Bryan gave me a roguish wink with his good eye as he handed cards about, two by two; first to me, then to Henry at my left, then George and, finally, Maggie. Bryan was bold and irreverent, always peppering his conversation with witty double entendres which amused Henry as much as did the jokes performed by Will, his fool. Sir Francis’s wit seemed somehow accented by the eye patch he wore to cover an injury received in a jousting accident some years ago. Perhaps, though, it was just his angular good looks. Henry and Sir Francis were great friends, and laughed and laughed together raucously; it was no wonder that Bryan was Chief Gentleman of Henry’s privy chamber. A quite shameless flirt, he paid me and Maggie constant attention during our game of Primero.

  I gathered my cards and was pleased to see a two of clubs, three of diamonds, four of spades, and the King of clubs. Keeping my expression unaffected, at my turn I stated, “Primero forty-nine.”

  Henry gave me a smug glance before throwing in his bid, accompanied by a hearty wager, “Primero fifty-nine, at two crowns,”’ whereupon George, knowing when he had been beaten, grumbled, “Pass!”

  Maggie interjected with a change of subject. “Your Grace, I have heard tell that a great deal of work is taking place at the Tower. I was told the place is packed with labourers both night and day. Are you building a new structure there?”

  “Not entirely new, Lady Margaret. New rooms, though, within the royal palace. The entire building was in dire need of repair and refurbishment, so it is timely. I expect it to host an important guest in
the very near future,” he added with a sideways glance in my direction.

  I knew Henry was readying the royal apartments and the great hall in the palace within the Tower for my stay on the eve of my coronation as Queen, having previously conferred with me regarding the style of decoration and furnishings. Maggie observed the tender unspoken exchange between us and gave me the warmest look – one that conveyed ‘I share your joy’. It was the look of a true friend, not the false panderings of those who were secretly jealous. I did love her so for her generous nature.

  A fist slammed on the table. “Enough drivel! The Tower has stood there a long while already; I expect it will wait ‘til we finish this hand.”

  Bryan had been impatiently awaiting his turn. With typical bravado, he released his cards on the table for us to see - and envy. “Maximus!” he announced, beaming triumphantly. “At six crowns, a raise from your paltry two, Your Grace.”

  With an ace, a six, and a seven of clubs, it did indeed seem as if the pot would go to Bryan this round.

  We nearly overlooked Maggie’s turn to show, being too busy griping over Bryan’s ongoing lucky streak. Until that was, she said quietly, “Chorus.”

  We all turned her way, whereupon, with an almost-diffident shrug of her shoulders, she spread before us a hand displaying four kings. “Thank you most kindly, Sir Francis,” she said most politely, and neatly gathered the chips she had won to swell further her accumulating pile...

  Greenwich, Dover, and the English Channel

  October 1532

  Thursday 6 October was a day of final, frenzied preparation. The royal apartments at Greenwich became Bedlam as palace staff topped off trunks and crates with items needed for the trip. The kitchens were equally frantic as many foodstuffs were to be taken with us, rather than be acquired on the journey, or once we reached Calais. I sat at a circular table with George Taylor, Maggie, who had become my de facto Mistress of the Wardrobe, and several chambermaids, reviewing lists of clothing, jewellery, cosmetics, furs and other adornments I planned to wear throughout the visit. Such comprehensive organization was required – not my strong suit. Thank heaven for Maggie’s ability to tend to detail. My ensembles must be packed together, or I would spend the entire trip rummaging about searching for a certain hood to wear with a particular gown or the correct surcoat for an outdoor event. When all was ready; the last trunk lid closed with the lists of items carefully stowed within, the crates and trunks carted off to be transported to Dover, and my travelling attire set out I fell, utterly exhausted, into bed. The soft linen sheets felt smooth and cool against my skin, and I drifted off into a blissful, dreamless sleep.