“God save the Queen! God bless Queen Anne!”
She glanced up, but the canopy above her head would obscure her view of him. After that, a few more people cheered, but not many. It was not the loud acclaim that greeted Queen Katherine on her coronation, so he had heard, and even when the King appeared beside the carriage, rejoicing was kept to a minimum.
Anne was not popular. There were grumblings, which Harry could not make out from his high position, even though he had opened his window with great difficulty. It was such a struggle to push it up, he doubted it would close again, but that was not his problem; he had paid more than enough to buy the landlord a new window.
As he leaned out, just far enough to see and hoping no one looked up and recognised him, his heart ached and he wondered why he had made this arduous and painful journey. She looked beautiful, but watching her, knowing she spent her nights in the arms of another man, hurt so much he thought it might be the end of him.
He should not have come. He should have satisfied himself with news from afar, should have kept his imaginings, as they told him what he wanted to hear, not the reality of this.
Who would have thought, all those years ago when Anne had accepted his proposal of marriage, that she would be crowned Queen of England? His father and the Cardinal had said she was merely a knight’s daughter, not good enough for the future Earl of Northumberland. Yet she was good enough for a King.
THE CORONATION HAD exhausted Anne. The eyes of thousands of people, all staring at her, many with malice, had been too much. She had not expected to be popular; after all, rumours had spread that it was her fault Katherine and Mary had been sent from court, it was her fault their King had broken away from the church, it was her scheming that had put her in this position.
It was so unfair, and had she been the sort of woman who worried about the opinions of others, it might have hurt more than it did.
It had been a very long day and she had to lean on the King’s arm lest she collapse. He might have taken such closeness as a sign of affection; he likely did, being so egotistical, but she could not help that. If he could not see how exhausted she was, how ill she felt, then he most certainly did not love her.
AS THE YEAR WORE ON, as Anne retreated into confinement, Henry grew more and more excited with the possibility, nay the certainty, of having a son. All was going as planned, God had released him from his sinful and unlawful marriage, and given him a new and wonderful Queen. Once their son was born, Henry’s insistence on that would be validated and none could say he had discarded one wife in order to marry another.
He had announcements printed, he had festivities planned, his courtiers knew he would brook no warnings so none were given.
He was out riding when the messenger galloped toward him with the news.
“The Queen has given birth to a beautiful, healthy daughter, Your Grace. Praise be to God.”
Henry’s smile faded, his stomach twisted as he fought against the need to vomit, his heart pounded, anger swelled like a monster over which he had no control. Another useless girl!
SHE HEARD HIM APPROACH the bed, recognised his heavy footfall and heard her attendants scurry out to make way for him. Did they know, perhaps by his expression, that he was angry? Did they suspect a scene they would rather not witness?
Wiping her tears, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the little red-haired miracle in the crib beside her. She might be a girl, but she was Anne’s girl and she could not take her eyes off her.
A huge shadow formed over the crib, making Anne push herself up in the bed and feel the first flush of maternal defensiveness.
“Your Grace,” she said. “You have come to see your daughter. Is she not beautiful?”
Even as she spoke the words, her heart hammered so hard and fast she feared it might bounce out of her chest. Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet his as he leaned over the crib and stroked the babe’s cheek with the back of his fingers.
She was indeed a beautiful child, but there was something vital missing, her sex. Why had God done this to him? Was he now telling him he was still walking the wrong path? But no, this was His way of telling Henry to be patient, that all would come if he remained devout.
“She is, indeed, Anne,” he said. He leaned across the bed and kissed her cheek. “We will call her Elizabeth. A tribute to your mother and mine.”
“A boy next time,” said Anne nervously.
“Of course,” he replied, straightening up. “A son next time.”
As Anne prepared herself for ‘next time’, her husband continued his efforts to have all his subjects swear an oath to follow him. The Oath of Allegiance was signed by almost all his subject of whom it was required, but the Oath of Supremacy demanded they acknowledge Henry as the supreme head of the church in England. That caused men to examine their conscience a little deeper.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It has to be a Boy
BESOTTED BY HER TINY daughter, Anne was devastated when the King insisted that, as a royal princess, she must have her own household and sent her to Hatfield House.
“She is so tiny,” pleaded Anne. “She should be with her mother.”
“Were her mother a common woman, I would agree,” replied Henry. “But her mother is a Queen and has other duties, first of all being the conception of a healthy son. Elizabeth must have her own household; it will show people who she is, if any still doubt it.”
“Why can her household not be here, in the palace. There is space enough.”
He clucked his tongue and shook his head, as though she was a spoilt child asking for the impossible.
“She will have Hatfield and a full household of attendants. One of them will be the Lady Mary.”
“Mary?”
“Yes. It will show the people even more clearly who Elizabeth is, what her place is.”
“But is Mary to be trusted with her?”
That look came over him, that look that said she had gone too far.
“The Lady Mary will be her attendant. It will tell the people the truth; it will tell Mary the truth as well as her mother.”
Anne’s heart began to race. She held his hand, clutched it tightly.
“Promise me,” she pleaded. “Promise me that she will never be left alone with our daughter.”
He made no reply, only turned and left the room.
By early in 1534, Anne was again with child. Her aversion to her husband’s physical attentions had not improved after the birth of Elizabeth, but she had to pretend. He was a selfish lover, thinking only of his own satisfaction, and she had no other with whom to compare him. Often she wondered if every woman suffered in this regard as she did.
At least she had her sister at court since her husband, William Carey, died. Anne had persuaded the King to grant Mary an annuity, as Carey had left her almost penniless, and she was the only person Anne felt she could trust.
But she would never say too much to her. One never knew who might be listening, and she thought it would be uncivil to mention Mary’s rapid weight gain. Anne hoped it was overeating and not some new affair in which she was indulging.
Mary was not a virtuous woman. Shortly after her marriage to William Carey, she had begun an affair with the King, but knowing him as she now did, Anne wondered if her sister had been coerced into it, as she had been coerced into becoming his wife.
In France Mary had been one of the many mistresses of King Francis, but who knew that he had not used his power to bring her to that?
After weeks of indecision, Anne had no doubt that her sister was with child, and God alone knew who the father might be. She wondered if Mary knew herself, but pushed the treacherous thought away as she summoned her to a private meeting.
“You are with child,” said Anne abruptly. “Who is the father?”
Mary blushed, ducked her head, her eyes firmly fixed on the pattern in the expensive rug.
“I trust you are not still warming the King’s bed,” continued Anne, her voice
rising.
“Of course not,” said Mary. She reached out to take her sister’s hand, but Anne stepped back. “The father of my child,” she said, “is my husband.”
Anne could only stare for a few moments, silently trying to make sense of Mary’s words.
“You have no husband,” she said at last. “Will Carey has been dead too long to have fathered this one.”
“I am married to William Stafford,” said Mary.
“You are married?” said Anne. “Without my permission, without the King’s?”
“We married in secret,” said Mary. “We knew consent would be refused and I would likely be forced into yet another marriage with a man who cared nothing for me. You do know that Will Carey condoned my relationship with the King, do you not? He happily accepted the spoils from whoring out his wife to the royal bed.”
“I am sorry for that, Mary, really I am. But William Stafford is nothing; a second son, not even good enough to be a courtier. He is a soldier.”
“A brave and loyal one. I suppose that counts for nothing.”
“Henry will be furious. Stafford cannot be brother-in-law to the King. I cannot imagine what he will do.”
“Surely that will be your decision,” said Mary. “You still have influence over the King, especially while you are expecting his heir.”
“Why do you imagine I will help you?”
“Because you are not malicious, Anne. I have what you were denied; I married for love. Will you not help me to keep that?”
Anne reached out and drew her sister into her arms, held her close. Mary was right; she, a noblewoman from an important family, had had the audacity to marry for love. Anne could do nothing save wish her well.
“You must leave court, immediately, and never return. I cannot be responsible for your safety if you stay. I may never see you again, but at least you will be safe and happy.”
IN NORTHUMBERLAND, Lord Harry Percy was happy enough to sign the Oath of Supremacy. Like Anne, his loyalty to the Church of Rome had long since diminished, and he believed as she did, that the one good thing to come from King Henry’s fascination with Anne was his break with that church.
Harry continued to be ill. Physicians had no idea what ailed him, but his illness grew worse and more frequent. He was often dizzy and weak, in tremendous pain and slept a lot. He would have loved for his brothers to be of the sort who could aid him in his work, but, alas, that was not to be.
Both were fiercely Catholic and Harry feared they might put themselves at risk by refusing the Oath. If they did, Harry was in no mood to assist them and risk being implicated himself.
ANNE FELT SHE WAS BEING watched by everyone, and she probably was. Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, was particularly interested in her personal habits and she knew he reported back to Katherine as well as the Emperor Charles V, Katherine’s nephew, but she could do nothing to stop him.
He still insisted on referring to her as ‘the Concubine’, even though she was the Queen. He refused to pay her any homage, refused to bow to her, and still regularly corresponded with Katherine, whom he referred to as ‘Queen Katherine’.
Henry was furious with him, but he was a Spanish diplomat and there was nothing the King could do to curb him.
That summer was hot and Anne’s growing bulk did nothing to ease her discomfort. She kept to her suite as much as possible and the King postponed a planned trip to France as she would not be able to endure the crossing.
She prayed night and day for a son. Once he had a son, Henry might renew the affections that had kept him enticed for so many years. Since their marriage, his ardour had cooled and she knew she had been right all along – once he had fulfilled his desire, that desire had lost its appeal.
She knew his eye was wandering and she remembered the vow she had made to herself, that she would not tolerate infidelity. But she was helpless to prevent it; she could not even offer him an alternative while she was carrying his child.
She spoke of her concerns to Henry, tried unsuccessfully to keep her temper as she did so.
“I am not merely a man, My Lady,” he said. “I am a King with the appetites of a King. Do you want my health to suffer whilst you are unavailable? Is that what you want?”
She made no reply, only turned her head away. His accusation had another meaning, a meaning she could not mistake. To wish ill health on the King was treason, punishable by death.
She ran her hands over her stomach, felt the child move, and smiled. It had to be a son, it simply had to.
As the date for the birth of this child grew closer, Anne began to suffer from vivid dreams where the child was another girl, or worse. Once, she had dreamed the baby was born a girl, then followed many more girls, until she sat with her arms full of baby girls, all mocking their father. On one occasion, she had dreamed that the child was a boy, a beautiful, healthy baby boy, and she was so happy. The King was overcome with joy and swore allegiance to her forever, then the child changed; he changed into another girl.
She woke from these dreams with tears pouring down her face, her fear making her heart pound. This child must be a boy.
DURING THAT YEAR, HENRY pursued his plans to finally break with the Roman church, ridding himself of the Pope and his influence, whilst keeping the Catholic religion.
There were many brave enough to refuse to sign his Oath of Supremacy. Henry had declared that the oath must be signed by all his nobles and anyone who held office. Sir Thomas More was one of these men and he saw a way to avoid it in giving up his offices and retreating to his home and his devoted family. The King was not satisfied with that.
More had been his friend for many years and he was a man much admired and respected by the nobility and the common people alike. People would follow where he led so it was important to Henry to know that he had Thomas on his side. But More was a devout Catholic and refused to sign.
Henry was furious with him, his anger terrifying to see, and he condemned him to a small, cold cell in the Tower to consider further. Anne was even more convinced that her husband had lost his mind. If he would condemn his closest friends, who was going to be next?
This child must be a boy.
THOMAS CROMWELL WAS a man driven by ambition. He it was who had attached himself to Cardinal Wolsey, he it was who had assured the King that no foreign authority had power over England, not even the Pope.
He knew how to fill the royal head with ideas, notions that festered and developed into full blown certainty and when that happened, the King could tell himself the ideas came from God himself.
Cromwell had been Anne’s friend during the divorce and he was as eager as she to see the English Church established and the protestant faith recognised as the official religion of England.
But as time went on, she began to distrust him. The devious way he had solved the problem of the King’s divorce from Queen Katherine assured her that he would likely dispose of her just as easily if the King wished it.
The Princess Mary had still refused to sign the Oath of Supremacy, but that came as little surprise. She was devoted to Roman Catholicism, spending hours on her knees just as her mother before her, and she would never betray her allegiance to the Papacy.
But while Mary was banished, she was certain it was her father’s new wife who was insisting on the signing of the Oath, certain that without her, the King would return to the church of Rome.
Anne’s name was already blackened by rumour like this, and she had ceased to be angry at the unfairness of it. Yes, she wanted the split with Rome, but nothing else. The fact was that once the King had begun to question, once he had authority over men’s souls as well as their physical bodies, he realised just how wealthy the church was and just how wealthy he could become by taking the role of its head.
Corrupted by the prospect of such power, he was in no mood to hear that his Queen had gone into labour some four months early. He did not even hurry to her bedside; what was the point? The child would not survive and he
had lost interest in soothing its mother’s tears.
QUEEN ANNE RECOVERED slowly from the late miscarriage of what would have been the son Henry wanted so badly. And he did not come at all to see how she fared, did not think she might be happy to see him, to hear him tell her all would be well next time.
When she finally forced herself from her bed, her complexion as white as the sheets on which she lay, her cheeks sunken with grief and her eyes red from the tears she had shed, he finally joined her for supper.
Gone was the man who yearned to have her for his own, the man who almost caused a war and changed the religion of his country to have her in his arms. Now he was cold toward her, did not even kiss her, or ask after her health.
Her eyes met his and she knew he regretted his impetuosity in marrying her, in making her his Queen. But he had no regrets about the church, about forcing people to sign his Oath in support of him, Henry, as the head of the church. That gave him more power than he ever thought possible and now there was no one to stop him from doing precisely as he liked.
His famous conscience could always be moulded to suit himself; he sincerely believed that every thought that entered his head was God’s voice, speaking to him, telling him what to do. There was no arguing with that.
Anne waited until he had seated himself at the small table, then waved the servant away.
“I am sorry to have lost your son, Your Grace,” she said quietly.
After a few minutes silence he covered her hand with his own.
“Twas not your fault, Anne,” he said. “We will try again, as soon as you are able.”
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight,” he replied. “I have a previous engagement.”
“Who with?” she snapped. “Some whore?”
He pushed the table away and stood up, towered threateningly over her.
For the Love of Anne Page 10