Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  In the days leading up to Christmas, Henry was rowed to Westminster, where he, Norfolk and Suffolk, my father, Thomas Cromwell, and Sir Thomas Audley, Keeper of the Great Seal -and the likely next Chancellor- met during a prorogued Parliament to conduct critical matters of state. There was one party whose opinions and views would have been indispensable, but he was absent. Thomas Cranmer had been sent months ago on a diplomatic embassy to Emperor Charles. Now he was much needed back in England - at court - to help direct the concluding steps in the nullification of Henry’s marriage. I had the greatest of confidence in Dr Cranmer, and admired him enormously, so I encouraged Henry to stop at nothing to retrieve him. The former Archbishop of Canterbury, old William Warham, had died over the summer, and the position was vacant. I remembered Warham’s disapproving look and lack of support when the meetings at Hampton Court had taken place some time ago, and now that he was gone, there was an opportunity to fill the esteemed position with someone aligned with Henry’s increasingly reformist views. Cranmer was the obvious, and perfect, choice. We waited impatiently as he travelled with difficulty from Italy, through France and across the Channel, from Dover to London, but the weather worsened daily with layers of snow and ice, and by Christmas Eve, we had only a message that he would hope to arrive ‘soon’.

  I looked forward to the Christmas banquet with excited anticipation, and on that evening, made merry with Anne and Maggie, Honor and Margery, Elizabeth and Dorothy – all my favourites, while we dressed and embellished ourselves. We made our entrance after the others had assembled, and upon stepping into the hall, my senses were assaulted by the riot of colour, bright torchlight, the din of sound, and the heady smells. Suddenly I felt dizzy and gripped Maggie’s shoulder to steady myself. After a moment, the feeling had passed, and I assumed my place next to Henry at the head of the room on the raised platform which held our table. The evening drew on, and though I did enjoy myself, especially basking in the radiance of an exuberant Henry at my side, I did not feel my best. I had not eaten much throughout the day, and should have been hungry, but was not. In fact, the smell of some of my favourite dishes did not appeal to me at all, and when the Christmas Pie was served, I was surprised to find that the sight of it turned my stomach. I hoped I was not coming down with an illness which would keep me abed for days.

  I smiled and danced, but finally pulled Henry aside, and telling him I was tired, made an early retreat to my chamber and went directly to bed. I must have been soundly asleep when Henry came to the room and climbed in beside me, for I do not remember. What I do recall, though, is being awakened early the next morning with nausea which prompted me to jump from the bed and run to a basin in the room to be sick, a condition which both Henry and I attributed to overindulgence on the prior evening.

  Oddly, though, for the next few days, nausea came and went. At times it overtook me, and I had to find discreetly a place to vomit, or to merely heave if I had eaten nothing. My initial panic at this pattern was only slightly mollified when I did not come down with a fever or the ague: I would never forget my encounter with the sweating sickness. But the ailment persisted, and it seemed very strange indeed; I had never felt that way before.

  We received regular reports from Cromwell as to the approaching whereabouts of Dr Cranmer. On 1 January 1533, the court New Year celebration was held during which gifts were distributed to all, including palace staff, and a great many poor folk were given alms. I surprised Henry with the now completed, and exceptionally masterful, portrait of me painted by Master Holbein. To say that Henry was delighted with its realism would not nearly describe his zeal for the painting. He spoke bandog and bedlam about it to anyone who would listen, and presented Holbein with an extra large stipend, along with the promise of many more commissions. He stated resoundingly that he wanted a life-sized portrait of himself, with me painted by his side. At this news, Holbein thanked Henry most graciously – but as he bowed, I caught a roll of his eye at the thought of trying to keep Henry and me captive long enough to paint even a reasonable likeness!

  Well over a week into January, Dr Cranmer arrived at court. He and Henry met shortly after he settled himself at Greenwich, and Henry wasted no time in telling Cranmer he was to be appointed Archbishop of Canterbury. Surprisingly, Cranmer’s reaction to that news was not one of pleasure or grateful enthusiasm. He was of the mind that the requirements of the position of Archbishop ran counter to his views of Rome and the Papacy. Henry, though, was not going to permit anything to stand in the way of having the trusted Cranmer in the highest clerical position in his realm, and so after consultation with some of the best legal and canonical minds in England, a solution was devised – a disclaimer which would allow Cranmer to accept the position with a clean conscience. At this conclusion, my relief, as well as Henry’s, was palpable. Dr Thomas Audley was then named Chancellor, and with these two supporters in the positions of power, the obstacles to my marrying Henry were, at last, falling away.

  Emma and Lucy bustled about my chamber, straightening, organising, lighting candles and adding wood to the hearth fire, and preparing to assist me in dressing for the Twelfth Night banquet and amusements. My gown had been selected and laid out on the bed, with the kirtle, sleeves, bodice and stomacher close by. Once I had completed applying my cosmetics and my hair had been woven into a riband, I stood for Emma to help me into the bodice and stomacher. I was to wear a gown which had been made for me upon my return home from Calais, in November. I had worn it once, and loved it – deep sapphire blue, with gold and silver embroidery – it was very flattering. Emma tugged and tugged at the bodice, which for some reason would not encompass me. “Emma, are you certain this is the right piece? It looks as if it is, and I believe I have but one deep blue bodice shot with gold and silver, but why doesn’t it fit?”

  “I have no idea, Madame,” Emma replied, quizzically peering into the mirror’s reflection which captured us both. “I am certain this is the very same bodice you wore in November. Let me try again.” And she yanked the laces together, resulting in a right ample bosom spilling from the neckline of the gown.

  I gaped at the sight, thinking it looked so unlike me that something must surely be amiss. And at that instant, it dawned on me. Holding on for support, I slowly sank into the chair in front of me. Nausea; the vomiting; the loss of appetite for familiar foods – the bosom! I quickly made note of what had not appeared for well over a month: my menses.

  By God’s great grace! I was pregnant! A sublime joy filled my soul and caused me to spill tears of elation. Emma and Lucy, concerned by my reaction, rushed to help, looking questioningly. I smiled through my tears and gazed back, cradling my stomach. No words were necessary – they immediately understood - and Lucy murmured, “Oh, Madame! How wonderful! Our lips are sealed until you deliver the news. We will care for you most tenderly, though, dear Madame.”

  My sense of exhilaration carried me through the evening as if I floated on air.

  Oh, how I wanted to shout the news from the palace turrets! I so wanted to tell Henry – and every moment I was near him caused me a struggle to maintain my silence. As great was my desire to share the miracle with him, even greater was the need to be certain – to be absolutely sure – before I told him that I carried his child. And so I waited.

  With each passing day, I knew. There was to be no doubt. How curious pregnancy was, I thought to myself. The most subtle but undeniable changes took place. Nausea remained, especially upon awaking, but was manageable if I nibbled some manchet and sipped weak ale. My dukkys were now clearly increased in size, and I would very shortly need to have all my bodices taken out to fit properly. In the afternoons, I became so sleepy! Naps were a must, and I was glad it was January, and not hunt season so my absence would not be noticed.

  By mid-month, I could wait no longer.

  I planned a private supper and evening alone with Henry. He was pensive while we sat at the table, and I presumed he was musing on the man
y state details which had concerned him of late. He sat gazing steadily at the hearth fire, lost in thought. I placed my hand gently on his face and turned it, so we were eye to eye. “My love,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. He smiled in return, but I could not avoid seeing the weariness etched around his eyes. How long, after all, could he be expected to wait to fulfil his desire? How many obstacles must he cross? When something we seek evades us continuously, do we not finally, from sheer exhaustion, turn away and give up?

  This child has come not a moment too soon, I thought.

  “Henry,” I said, so softly. “I have something to tell you. I first thought to present it in a special way – an elaborate enactment. And then I realized that nothing in the world could render these words more beautiful than they, themselves. Your Majesty, I am with child.”

  He was impassive. No expression of surprise registered on his features. I held my breath. Then, great tears welled in his eyes, spilled and splashed onto the tablecloth below. His face crumpled, and he enfolded me in his arms and wept on my shoulder. And I wept, too. Our long, long wait was over.

  Whitehall

  25 January 1533

  Lucy woke me, and it was dark as pitch. My sleep-heavy eyes searched the shadows, and for a moment, I was not sure of my whereabouts. But as she lighted candles and stoked the hearth, all came flooding back to me. I was in my bedchamber at York Place. Henry was not beside me.

  If ever there was a morning to lay abed, burrowed deep under the coverlets, it would have been this one. Freezing cold it was, and when I pushed open the window casement for only the briefest moment, snow swirled thickly just outside the window and did its best to invade the room. I jerked the window closed as tightly as possible and then went to stand, shivering, in front of the hearth which was now comfortingly ablaze, to begin to dress for my wedding day.

  Lucy and Emma helped me on with the petticoat, kirtle, bodice, and sleeves. We giggled excitedly about how cunning my ensemble – the entire gown created in luxurious white velvet, with a white satin petticoat beneath – in matching the weather for the day. The only jewellery I wore was a large diamond, given to me by Henry, dangling from a golden chain around my neck – and my emerald betrothal ring. My hair hung loose, and my face was devoid of cosmetics, save for the tiniest bit of rouge to my cheek and lip, just to offset winter’s pallor.

  Anne Savage came to my chamber. She was to be my only attendant at this, the quietest and most secretive of weddings. At one time I had envisioned myself at the centre of a spectacular wedding celebration. But after the interminable wait for release from Rome, which never came, Henry had taken the Matter into his own hands. And now that the longed-for day had finally arrived, such a display mattered not at all to me. I was aglow and thought the pre-dawn rendezvous to marry my love the most romantic thing I could ever have imagined.

  I pulled an ermine wrap tightly about my shoulders, and Anne and I hurried silently through the shadowed halls of the sleeping palace to the northern gate, which connected the two new towers spanning King Street. We wound our way up the spiral stair till we reached the uppermost chamber. Brightly candlelit, with braziers in each of the four corners radiating warmth, the room seemed to me dreamlike. It was simple, but beautiful, with a soaring ceiling, a stunning marble hearth ablaze on the courtyard side, handsomely carved wooden panelling all around, and a bank of eight stained glass and mullioned windows, four up and four down, overlooking King Street.

  Anne and I approached the others already present in the chamber: Henry, Henry Norreys, Thomas Heneage and William Brereton. The officiant was to be the King’s chaplain, Dr Rowland Lee. These few people would be witness to the most significant day in my life.

  I waited, holding my breath, while Henry assured Dr Lee that the marriage licences were in order, but the hesitation was plain to see in Lee’s expression. I knew that no licence existed as yet, and it was to be Cranmer’s mandate to ensure all would be in order with immediacy. Lee asked Henry to please show him the licence, and at this, I watched Henry’s face begin to darken. I worried that an altercation would again postpone what had now become the most urgent of matters. With a look of absolute command, Henry told Lee the paper was in a protected place – one he did not intend to reveal by retrieving it at that moment. He glared at Lee and growled menacingly, “Go forth, then, in God’s name, and do that which pertaineth to you!”

  We assumed our places.

  Henry stood to my right, I to his left, both facing Dr Lee. Our witnesses stood to the side, and when Lee recited the marriage banns, asking thrice if anyone present knew of an impediment to this marriage, all eyes in the room were lowered discreetly to the floor. No one uttered a word.

  Lee asked Henry and me if we were willing to proceed with the ceremony, and as is traditionally done, we both answered ‘Yea’. Then Henry took my right hand in his right hand and held it – warm, steady and strong. Prompted by the Chaplain, Henry said, looking into my eyes, “I Henricus Rex, take thee, Anne Boleyn to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forth, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Trembling, my voice not nearly as strong as I would have hoped, I squeezed Henry’s hand and said, “I, Anne Boleyn, take thee Henricus Rex to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forth, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  The delicate golden band which was to be my wedding ring was offered on a plate of gilt for Dr Lee to bless. Henry picked it up, and I placed my right hand in his. We met each other’s gaze and at once I felt like a stream cascading wilfully toward a flowing river. It was as if there was no one – nor anything – around us: only Henry and I. For a moment I heard naught but the sound of rushing water, and as the stream and the river merged, surging forward as one, I saw Henry’s lips move, and the image abruptly vanished. He said, slowly – deliberately - “…with this ring I thee wed and this gold and silver I thee give; and with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly wealth I thee honour.” He carefully held the ring on my thumb: “in the name of the Father,” then on my second finger saying, “and of the Son,” then the third finger, “and of the Holy Ghost,” and finally situated the band on my fourth finger, “Amen.”

  As snow softly blanketed the awakening city of London on that January dawn, I found myself unable to tear my eyes from the simple golden ring on my hand.

  I was wed.

  SOURCES

  Contemporary Accounts:

  Brewer, J., ed., Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, of the Reign of Henry VIII, Volume 4, 1875

  Brown, R., Calendar of State Papers, Venice, 1867

  Cotsgrave, R.,ed., A Dictionarie of the French and English Tongues, London: Adam Islip, 1611

  Gairdner, J., ed., Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, of the Reign of Henry VIII, Volumes 5 through 10, 1880 – 1887

  Gayangos, P.ed., Calendar of State Papers, Spain, Vols. 3 and 4, 1873-1879

  Grose, F. Esq and Astle, T. Esq., ed., The Antiquarian Repertory: A Miscellaneous Assemblage of Topography, History, Customs and Manners, London: Edward Jeffrey, 1809

  Hall, E., Chronicle Containing the History of England During the Reign of Henry the Fourth and the Succeeding Monarchs to the End of the Reign of Henry the Eighth, London, 1809

  Hinds, A., ed. Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts in the Archives and Collections of Milan - 1385-1618, 1912

  Mayhew, A. ,ed., A Glossary of Tudor and Stuart Words, London: Oxford Press, 1914

  Nichols, J.G. ed., Chronicle of Calais, London: Camden Society, 1846

  Nicolas, N.H. Esq. ed., The Privy Purse Expences of Henry the Eighth, London: Wm Pickering, 1828

  Phillips, J., ed., The Love Letters of Henry VIII
to Anne Boleyn, With Notes, Watchmaker Publishing, 2009

  St Claire Byrne, M. ed., The Lisle Letters, An Abridgement, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983

  Wriothesley, Charles, A Chronicle of England During the Reign of the Tudors, London: Camden Society, 1875

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  Carley, J., The Books of King Henry and His Wives, London: The British Library, 2004

  Cressy, D., Birth, Marriage, and Death – Ritual, Religion and the Life-Cycle in Tudor and Stuart England, New York: Oxford University Press 1997

  Drummond, J., and Wilbraham, A., The Englishman’s Food – A History of Five Centuries Of English Diet, London: Readers Union, 1959

  Emerson, K., www.kateemersonhistoricals.com/TudorWomenIndex.htm, 2008 - 2013

  Fletcher, C., Our Man in Rome, Henry VIII and his Italian Ambassador, London: The Bodley Head, 2012

  Fraser, A., The Wives of Henry VIII, New York: Vintage Books, 1994

  Ives, Eric, The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn ‘The Most Happy’, Blackwell Publishing, 2004

  Jokinen, A., www.Luminarium.org, 1996

  Mikhaila, N. and Malcolm-Davies, J., The Tudor Tailor – Reconstructing 16th century dress, Hollywood: Costume and Fashion Press 2006