“You knew he was coming? And you failed to tell me?”
“No, I did not know he was coming, but if I had, I would not have informed you. Whatever my husband’s motive for coming all this way, that motive concerns us and our marriage, not you.”
“You are my responsibility.”
“No,” she said. She cut some of the food and started eating. “I am no one’s responsibility. I am a married woman and if Harry wants to try to repair the damage to our marriage, I am not opposed to the plan.”
“Does he? Is that what he wants?”
“I do not know,” she answered. “He did not have much time to tell me anything before he needed his bed.” She looked up at her father with an optimistic smile before she spoke the next words. “He is very ill, Father,” she said. “Very ill indeed.”
IT WAS DARK WHEN HARRY finally woke, the moon bright and lighting his chamber and a few moments passed before he remembered where he was. His mouth was parched and as he climbed out of the bed, he realised he had slept in his clothes. He was so exhausted when he arrived, he had no memory of going to bed, no memory of anything. He thought he’d suggested something to Mary, although he could not recall precisely what.
At this time of year, high summer, it was late when the sun went down, so this display of starlight he saw from the window proved it must be well into the night. He would not disturb the servants, not unless he had to and he’d really rather not have anyone see him in this state.
He was disappointed, when he arrived down in the basement kitchen, to find a maidservant stoking the ovens. She stopped what she was doing and curtsied quickly, although Harry wondered if she knew who he was.
“My Lord,” she said. “Can I get you something?”
“Milk,” he said. “And some bread.”
He returned to the great hall and waited just a few minutes before the nervous maidservant hurried in with his milk and his bread, along with a small amount of cheese. She looked about her nervously as she quickly put the platters on the table, then turned and fled back to the kitchen. Harry assumed she was not supposed to be here, that she was confined to the kitchens. He thanked her before she turned and curtsied, forced a little smile and ran out.
If that maidservant was stoking the ovens, it must be past midnight. It was light early, so likely it was the early hours and now his memory started to return, he started to remember what he was doing here. Mary had asked to come home and he admitted to himself that he needed her, but he had conditions, conditions she might not like.
An excellent time to put his proposals to her would be now, when her interfering father was fast asleep. He felt stronger after his slumber and his breakfast, much stronger, back to his old self, but that was the nature of this illness. It came, it left him debilitated for a few days, then it left him wondering when he would see its like again.
The physicians were useless; the only remedy they had for anything was to bleed him, either with a knife or by putting those disgusting little creatures about his body to grow fat on his blood. There was one who wanted to pull his teeth, reckoned it was rotten teeth causing his ailment. But Harry had no rotten teeth and even if he had, he was not about to go through life chewing on his gums.
He crept along the gallery to Mary’s bedchamber and went inside. He stood over her for a long time, staring down at her with distaste, trying to summon some ardour for her. But he could not; to him she was just a nuisance, an unappealing nuisance who had been foisted on him, who had spied on him for Norfolk, although she denied it, and had accused him of beating her, which was a blatant and slanderous lie.
To him, that last was the worst she had done. He had certainly been tempted to give her a good hiding on more than one occasion but he would never do such a thing, no matter the provocation. He was, if nothing else, a man of honour. Besides, what would Anne say if he committed such a sin? She would never forgive him.
He had seen nothing of Anne for years, but he knew what was happening in London, he knew that the King was trying to divorce his wife in order to marry her and the knowledge filled him with anger. She was his Anne, his alone. They had lain in the clearing and promised to belong to each other. She would never belong to that overweight, over decorated tyrant.
Harry knew his life, along with Anne’s, had been wasted because of the King, and yes, Mary’s as well. She had no more desire for him than he had for her, poor girl, and now she lay sleeping, oblivious to her husband’s presence, oblivious to his thoughts and plans.
He lay down beside her, making the bed move and her eyes flickered open. It was a few seconds before her consciousness registered his presence and she tried to sit up, but he gripped her arm and held her down.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I have been thinking about your request and I agree. I need my countess and you need your own establishment.”
“Good. So, will you take me with you when you leave?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what? I have given you my conditions.”
“You have and very clearly,” he said. “But I have not yet given you mine.”
He still held onto to her arm, keeping her in place, stopping her from leaving the bed and she had an idea he had not come only to talk. She had seen that look in his eyes before, but not for many years, not since early on in their farce of a marriage.
“Very well,” she said. “What are your conditions? I suppose you want to hang a portrait of your beloved whore in your chamber.”
She knew she was goading him, knew such words would anger him, but still she could not keep them to herself.
He clenched his teeth together, his fingers formed into fists, one of which raised itself over Mary’s head, seemingly of its own will. She flinched away from him, making him recognise what he was doing and he forced his fist apart and used that hand to shove her down.
It was like last time. He forced himself on her, but she would not cry, not this time. This time she only squeezed her eyelids shut tight and lay still, let him do what he wished. She had little choice anyway; he was still her husband with rights over her which she had no power to challenge. But he did not want her, not really. If he had shown her some affection, even if it was ingenuous, they might have had something on which to build. But all he wanted was that Boleyn trollop who was turning the King’s head and causing a scandal of unprecedented proportions.
She supposed Harry thought she was saving herself for him, but Mary thought it unlikely. She, like most other people, believed that Anne was holding the King at bay in order to drive him mad with desire and get her own way. What that way was seemed to be debatable.
“If you conceive,” Harry said as he stood up, “if you give me an heir, we’ll talk further.”
Harry left before the rest of the household woke, leaving Mary embittered and used. So he wanted her to conceive, did he? She could not help but wonder what he would do if she did. Would he want her and their child back at Alnwick, or only the child? God, how she despised him. Not for the first time, she wondered just what Mistress Anne saw in him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Too Close to the Sun
ANNE HAD BEEN IN A sort of limbo since she had been noticed by the King. She could not look to the future, as she could see no future, not for her. No other man would dare pay her attention while the world knew that Henry wanted her.
She looked back over those years, how she had dreaded the Irish marriage, how pleased she had been to meet Harry. She would never forgive Cardinal Wolsey for the way he had treated Harry, for the way he had upbraided him before his entire household.
She had not been allowed to see him after that, had no chance to discuss things with him, assure him it did not matter, that they would get their revenge. But that had been then, when they believed their love could overcome any obstacle.
They had no idea then that it was the King who was the obstacle they needed to overcome, the King who had his eye on her, the King wh
o had ordered not only Harry’s marriage to Mary Talbot, but the dissolution of her own betrothal to James Butler.
Anne thought then that she could be in control, that all she need do was keep refusing him, and Henry would give up and find someone else to satisfy his lust. But it had not worked that way. Instead he wanted her more and more and people actually blamed her for that, thought that it was she who was scheming to become Queen.
The King’s sister, the Princess Mary and Duchess of Suffolk, had much to say about his attempted annulment. A great friend of Katherine, she soon forgot how the young Anne Boleyn served her during those long ago days when she was sent to France to marry its King. She despised Anne now, as did her husband, and might well persuade her brother against his scheme. But it would be too late for Anne, as her reputation was already in shreds and it was so unfair. She was quite content to be Mistress Anne Boleyn; she wanted nothing more.
Now Henry had sent Katherine away, sent Princess Mary somewhere else and Anne was being blamed for it. It was cruel, to separate Mary from her mother, especially now when they needed each other more than ever.
But Henry was a cruel man, a man who would brook no argument, who was determined to get his own way no matter who suffered in order to achieve that and the worst thing was that he had the power to do so. What sort of God would give so much control to a man with such an enormous ego?
“He has failed me, my love,” Henry’s deep voice came from behind her, making her start. Many men had failed him these past years and that was a dangerous thing to do.
“Who has?”
“Wolsey, of course,” he replied.
He strode to the sideboard and poured himself wine, poured a second goblet for Anne and handed it to her. She did not want it, but it was pointless to refuse. He would only tell her she did not mean it; that was his answer to everything, that she did not really mean it. Anne had given up trying to explain anything to him, trying to tell him how she felt. He simply did not believe it; he simply did not care. What Henry wanted was the only thing that mattered and he believed that everyone else wanted the same. It was hopeless.
Her sense of fairness wanted to defend the Cardinal, knew that he would have obtained Henry’s divorce if he could have. Why would he not? But she had never stopped hating him for the way he had torn her from Harry, humiliated him, called her a ‘foolish girl’ as though she were nothing. He would not even speak kindly to them, would not consider their feelings.
She cared nothing for Wolsey and if he should fall from grace because of this divorce, that was the best thing to come out of it.
“Henry,” she said. “Can you not see that it is pointless? The Pope will never allow you to divorce Katherine; he is too afraid of the Emperor.”
He came and sat beside her in the window seat, put his arm around her and brushed his lips across her cheek. There was a time she would have suppressed a shudder, but not anymore. He had interpreted her shudders as tremors of desire and to tell him otherwise was far too hazardous. Now she had grown accustomed to having him near her like this.
“He will pay,” said the King. “I have stripped him of all his offices.”
“All of them, Your Grace?”
Anne was pleased to hear it. He was far too high and mighty, had come too far from his station in life.
“All except York. He can keep his archbishopric, but everything else will go, probably to Cranmer. He has been loyal.”
She turned away to hide a smile, kept her eyes on the landscape outside. Cranmer was a better option; he was embracing the Lutheran religion, though secretly. Anne had been studying the works of Martin Luther herself and she would be only too delighted to see Cranmer in Wolsey’s place.
She covered his hand with her own.
“It is good, Sire. You cannot have men around you who defy you.”
“And the best thing,” he said, “He has given me Hampton Court.”
She turned, looked at him in astonishment.
“That beautiful house? That must have hurt him.”
“Likely it did, but think, Anne. It will be ours, yours and mine. I shall have our initials carved into the masonry. They will stay there forever as a testament to our love for each other.”
She squeezed his hand then turned back to the view. On occasions like this, she pitied him, this all powerful man. Who would have believed that? But he was like a child sometimes, a spoilt child it was true, but a child nonetheless. He simply refused to accept that there was something he could not have; he thought he loved her, so she must love him back.
“He’s taken himself on a pilgrimage to York. Tis the first time he’s been there I believe, and he’s supposed to be their Archbishop.” He paused thoughtfully, then smiled. “I shall send your Harry Percy to arrest him. Will that amuse you, Anne?”
Tears gathered in her eyes. He went from arousing her pity to acts of immense cruelty in the space of a moment. He knew well the humiliation the Cardinal would suffer to have his former page be the one to bring him down. Yet she might get some satisfaction from the irony, so might Harry.
He had written to her that his wife was with child. Strange how such news could still affect her, could still drive a blade into her heart. She thought they despised each other, and it was true they were living apart, but not that far apart apparently.
WHEN HARRY RECEIVED his wife’s news that she was with child, his first thought was to wonder if it was his. The other times had been fruitless, so why this time?
He wrote to Anne with the news. He did not want her to hear it from someone else and think he was reconciled with Mary. If only he knew, Anne would have rejoiced in such news. She wanted him to be happy and she knew he never would be.
The child was not due until April so he would set out after Christmas to visit. He was still unsure of where to go from there, whether he should grant her request to return to Alnwick Castle. It was likely, after their last encounter, that she no longer wanted that. On the other hand, she would not want her father interfering in her child’s future.
These were all thoughts to fill his head and give him a familiar headache. He was never sure, as the years went past, if his illnesses were made worse by his miserable existence.
He had few visitors but those that did pass through seemed to take great pleasure in reporting on the state of things at court. That’s how Harry knew that Anne was still holding out against the King and how he knew that he was still trying to achieve the impossible – a divorce from his lawful wife.
If King Henry did manage to find a way to defy the Pope, he would be excommunicated, which would put the whole country under an interdict. There would be no weddings, no baptisms and no funerals. Harry had little time for Rome; he had, in the long, distant past, discussed the new religion with Anne and decided it was the right way. He wondered if she still felt the same, since nothing could be committed to writing; that would be far too dangerous. Harry would be delighted to see England free from the yoke of Rome, but he saw no reason why the whole country should suffer because of its King’s lust.
He could not help but wonder if the King really did love Anne. He knew how easy that was, to fall for her, to yearn for her and dream about her, and he knew what it was to be denied her. He would almost have felt sorry for Henry Tudor had he not ruined Harry’s life.
Before twelfth night, Harry set out for Shrewsbury. He knew he would have to take his time, the roads being icy and possibly thick with snow in places. He also remembered how the journey had affected his health last time he visited his wife; this time he intended to take much more care, have many more stops and for longer.
And everywhere he stopped he heard more gossip about his beloved Anne and her scheme to take the throne from Queen Katherine.
MARY WENT INTO LABOUR early on a windy April morning. She had waited for this, waited impatiently, wondering all the time if she still wanted to return to Northumberland, still wanted to be the Countess there. This was his condition, that she gave him an heir.
It was the most important thing in a man’s life, that his wife should give him an heir and even the King was turning the country upside down for that same thing.
They had begun to call Anne Boleyn the Concubine, a name given her by the Spanish ambassador, and it was said she had promised the King a son if he married her. Mary thought that a foolhardy promise to make and no woman in her right mind would ever make such a vow, but Mary hated Anne enough to believe her that stupid.
Whilst these thoughts raced through her mind, a sudden pain shot through Mary and she screamed. Harry arrived just in time for the birth of his dead son.
SHE WAS SO WHITE AS she lay upon the pillow that she almost blended in with the linen. There were shadows beneath her eyes, so dark that if he had not known better, Harry might have suspected someone had hit her.
He sat on the bed beside her, something he had never done before. He wondered why that was; could it be because it was such an affectionate gesture, such a compassionate one? Now his heart melted.
Mary had always wanted a child; instead she had been condemned to life with him, a man she despised, a man in love with someone else.
For the first time in their turbulent marriage, Harry felt the shame of that, but he was still not sure if it was Mary he pitied or the cold little bundle of dead flesh he had seen quickly removed from her bed.
She kept her face turned away from him and he wondered if she were sleeping, exhausted from the ordeal.
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, not wanting to wake her if she should be asleep.
It was a few minutes before she turned to face him, before he saw more tears running down her face than he ever thought she had in her. Her voice struggled past a sob to reply.
“How would you expect?” she said bitterly. “You implant your seed in me, then run away and leave me to face this alone.”
“I came as soon as I could.”
For the Love of Anne Page 7