For the Love of Anne

by Margaret Brazear

  He had not seen his wife for years, not since the loss of their only child, and even if he wanted to travel to Shrewsbury to visit her, the journey would be too much. Not that he wanted to see her. He had been relieved not to have her presence in his home and he had no doubt that she felt the same.

  If she were unhappy, it might make her father feel something of the blame for that. It was a pity that his own father was no longer alive to take any of that blame upon himself.

  But it was the King, so he was told, who insisted on this farce of a marriage. It was the King who had separated him from Anne because he had taken a fancy to her himself, because the royal loins had honoured her with their attention. And look where that had led, the whole country in turmoil, many afraid for their very souls, all for the sake of one man’s lust.

  But he had little choice other than to leave his estate to that King. He would be sure Henry got to hear of it in the vain hope that it would soften his heart toward the Percy family.

  THAT CHRISTMAS OF 1535 was as joyous as every other Christmas before it. There was no warning that this year would be different and Anne was pleased that the King stayed with her, did not desert her for the delights of Madge Shelton and other sluts about the court.

  He could not, of course, bed with Anne, since her pregnancy must be preserved at all costs, but he spent the whole twelve days with her, dancing, singing, enjoying the entertainments.

  Henry cancelled another planned trip to Calais as he did not want Anne to make such an arduous journey in her condition, and he wanted his Queen with him.

  Perhaps things would be all right after all, if he would cancel such an important journey for her sake. He really wanted her with him enough to postpone it; that gave her comfort and endeared him to her.

  It was just after twelfth night that news came to them of the death of the Dowager Princess of Wales. Katherine of Aragon, that stately, impeccable woman, that woman whom Anne had pitied all those years ago when first she came to court, was no more.

  She felt strangely grief stricken to know that she was gone. She took to her chamber and wept, but she dared not ask Henry to put the court into mourning for her.

  This feeling that overcame Anne was unlikely, since Katherine’s death strengthened her own position. No more would there be devious supporters of Katherine plotting to bring down Anne and reunite Henry with his former wife.

  But despite that, more gossip spread around the country. It was said that Katherine’s heart had been black when they cut her open and rumour now had it that Anne had put a curse on her.

  She wanted to laugh at that. It was ridiculous, since Katherine was no threat to her. She had tried to make her banishment more comfortable, even pleaded with the King to allow a meeting between her and Mary, but nobody would ever believe that, even if it were announced as a proclamation.

  She found Henry alone but for his close servants. He glanced up from his work and gave her a half smile that she felt sure was forced, but she continued to stand beside him.

  “I come to offer my condolences,” she said.

  “On the death of my sister-in-law? Why should that be? She was your enemy.”

  His sister-in-law. That was so typical of Henry, to pretend those twenty years as Katherine’s husband never existed, that they were some pretence that never really happened.

  “You made her my enemy,” said Anne, her anger mounting. “I always had respect for her.”

  “She is gone now,” said the King. “But do not get too comfortable, Madam. I rid myself of one wife, one of far more importance than you.”

  “You are threatening me? And I but came to offer sympathy.” She touched her stomach soothingly. “Does this child mean nothing to you?”

  News of Katherine’s death had chilled him, filled him with regret. He had cast her aside, a loyal wife whom he had loved, and now it was clear that God was telling him He was as yet not satisfied.

  His eyes wandered over Anne, and he knew that the notion that entered his head was a reply from God. She had enchanted him, had seduced him away from his marriage, had caused him to split the country and even execute his closest friends. Was the Almighty now telling him he had married a witch? Why else would He take his male children?

  But she was with child and she could well be carrying the heir, the son he so desperately needed. God might still be telling him to wait, that he would learn that he was right.

  He stayed in his chair but pulled her against him, held her stomach close to his face, turned his head and gently kissed the satin that covered her precious cargo.

  “Forgive me, my love,” he said. “I am distraught. I thought I would be glad to see the end of Katherine, but I find myself strangely affected.”

  She held him against her, stroked his hair, bent and kissed the top of his head. It would be all right; this child would be a boy and with Katherine gone, more people would accept her as Queen. They would be happy again; Henry would love her again.

  Henry ordered an expensive funeral for his former Queen and a celebration of her life took place at the palace that evening. He was very attentive to his present Queen, enough to make Anne feel more secure.

  THEY WERE AT GREENWICH later in the month for the jousting. Henry was a keen jouster and always took part in the lists; that day was no exception. Anne sat on her Queen’s throne, wrapped in her ermine lined purple cloak for a shield against the harsh January weather.

  She wore the necklace with her initialled pendant hanging from the pearls and her dark eyes followed the King as he cantered forward, his lance ready to unhorse his opponent.

  He had shared her bed last night. They had not made love, of course, since nothing could be allowed to endanger this foetus, which could well grow to be the next King of England. But he had held her close, kissed her tenderly just as he had in the early days, and she had slept in his arms.

  She felt better, felt that she would win back his love, even though his love was a thing she had never wanted. Strange that she had never loved him, no matter what he had done for her. Yet those things were not for her, not to her mind. He had done all those things for himself, because he wanted to free himself of the Pope, wanted to free himself of Katherine, wanted Anne, and he was the King; no one was going to come between him and what he had set his mind on.

  She had grown fond of him over the years, but she could never forget that it was he and Wolsey who had destroyed her chance of being with the man she really loved. Wolsey was gone, her revenge on him complete, and she had long ceased to want revenge on Henry. It was too dangerous to even think about.

  She had no choice but to show Henry the love he craved and now, as she watched him, she saw once again what a wonderful horseman he was. He looked splendid in his armour which shone in the winter sunlight, and she was enjoying the entertainment, laughing and clapping her hands, crying out her joy.

  Then it happened. Henry was easy enough to spot, being taller and fuller built than any of the other contestants, and she watched with mounting excitement as he cantered toward his challenger once more. But this time his adversary’s lance unhorsed the King, he landed on the frost covered ground, his heavily armoured horse fell on him and the crowd subsided into hushed silence.

  Anne leapt to her feet, her arms outstretched as though to catch her husband as he fell. It was an empty gesture, an impulse in the few seconds after the fall, then she screamed and fainted into the arms of her brother, George.

  Having revived his sister, George wanted to take her to her chamber, but she insisted on going to the King. What she saw when she entered his apartment, made her feel dizzy again and she leaned heavily on her brother for support.

  The King lay completely still, his servants busy with water and cloths, while his groom of the stool, Sir Henry Norris, removed as much of his armour as was possible. Still the King remained unconscious, still nothing could wake him.

  Anne moved close to sit on the bed beside him, to take his hand and hold it to her lips. It was a
touching scene, one that a few among those present did not trust. Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, in particular stared at Anne with a frown, a grimace of disapproval, a grimace so fiercely hateful that she could almost feel it.

  The Duke was the King’s best friend and the widower of his sister, the Princess Mary Tudor. He was one of Anne’s worst enemies. He had been a great friend of Cardinal Wolsey and supporter of Queen Katherine and although he had obeyed the King’s wishes regarding his divorce and marriage to Anne, he blamed her entirely for turning Henry against his lawful marriage.

  Still, she was the Queen and if she wanted to sit at the King’s bedside and hold his hand during this worrying time, it was none of the Duke’s concern. It was men like him who were trying to turn Henry against his wife, but while she carried his child, they would not succeed.

  It was two hours before the King regained consciousness and during this time Anne sat with him, held onto that heavily ringed hand and silently prayed, although her prayers were muddled. Part of her desperately wanted the King to recover; he was the only protection she had against her many enemies. But part of her wished him dead, while Elizabeth was his natural heir and she, Anne, would have a place from which no one could topple her.

  The King recovered over the next few days, but his leg was badly injured and seemed likely never to fully mend. He would certainly never joust again, a fact which gave him a sour temper; it had ever been his favourite sport and now it was denied him.

  He began to wonder for what he was being punished, began to wonder just what God really wanted of him. He thought he saw a glimmer of an answer when, a few days later, Anne miscarried of a boy child.

  There could be no clearer message, for it happened on the very day of Katherine’s funeral.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dead Men’s Shoes

  ANNE WAS DEPRESSED, more depressed than she had ever been in her life. She had thought things were going well, believed that Henry’s love for her had been rekindled, that it was still as strong as ever. She had begun to believe that his little dalliances with the likes of Madge Shelton and a few others could never lure him away from his wife.

  She had been furious with him over his women and if he thought her jealousy was caused by her love for him, it was best to let him think so. He did not need to know that it was the blow to her dignity which caused her fury, as well as the fear that his love for her was fading fast.

  Nothing happened at court that its Queen failed to hear about and this new trollop of Henry’s was no different.

  Her name was Mistress Jane Seymour, sister of those Seymour brothers who had been edging their way into the King’s good graces for months. Anne had heard via her ladies that the King had sent this Seymour a purse of gold coins and that she had sent them back with a note that if the King wished to gift her money, he should do so when she had a husband.

  Anne could almost find that amusing were it not for her recent loss of a son and the dull dread which assailed her. Mistress Seymour was following her, Anne, refusing to give in to the King. Was her mention of a husband her way of telling him that she, too, wanted nothing less than marriage?

  He would not have to tear England away from the church this time, would he? But it would not be easy. Anne would not go quietly; she was his lawful wife and she would remain so. But an irritating little memory crept into her mind, a memory of three years ago when he had insisted on marrying her in secret, and while he was still legally wed to Katherine. She had asked him then if he would use such a bigamous marriage to rid himself of her.

  He had sworn that would never happen, that he loved her too much to ever want to be parted from her. She had not trusted his words then and she did not trust them now.

  He still called her his most beloved wife, still spoke lovingly of her to others, so what was his true meaning? Anne had no idea and not knowing was worse than anything.

  He promised their postponed trip to Calais would happen when she had fully mended. No, Mistress Seymour might try to play the same game as Anne, and that might get her to the King’s bed, but no further. Anne had nothing about which to worry, but she would not tolerate infidelity. She had sworn it years ago and now he must be told.

  Today she was happy, as she had asked the King to make her dear brother a Knight of the Garter this year. He had smiled kindly on her when she made her request and George had been a loyal servant. She looked forward to the ceremony, where she would take her place beside the King for the award.

  She dressed with care, in purple as a Queen should, with ermine trimming on her sleeves and a new French hood edged with pearls. She looked radiant and knew how to flirt, how to tempt the King. He had not visited her bedchamber since her miscarriage, likely wanting to give her more time to recover. She smiled; that was kind of him, but now it was time to try again for the longed for son.

  Followed by her maids of honour, she made her way to the King’s privy chamber and took her seat beside him on the dais. George was there, waiting for his award, but Anne was surprised to see her cousin and enemy, Nicholas Carew, also in attendance.

  She glanced at the King, puzzled, but he avoided her gaze. Instead he called Nicholas to him and pinned the ribbon on him, gave him the award.

  Perhaps he intended to make an exception and give two awards this year. Anne smiled at George, hoping to still his obvious fears, but Henry got up and left the chamber.

  He had promised her the garter would be given to George! In all the years she had known King Henry, he had never broken a promise like this, had always given her that for which she asked. Her heart sank. It was true then; Seymour’s influence was supplanting Anne’s and that she could not have.

  HARRY PERCY ARRIVED at his house in Newington Green early that year. He had a few things to attend to in London and he wanted to have recovered from the journey before he had to meet with anyone.

  Last year he had put his affairs in order, had arranged to leave his estate to the King on condition that it passed to his nephew. He had never got on with his brothers and recently they had been trying to persuade him to renounce his position in favour of one of them. They said it was to ease his discomfort, because of his ill health, but Harry knew better.

  They were against the King’s break with Rome and if he did not cut all ties with them, the Northumberland earldom would cease to exist.

  His arrival coincided with important events at court, events he knew nothing about for a few days after that arrival. He had, as usual, been forced to take to his bed for those days to recover from the journey.

  His servant informed him that Thomas Cromwell was putting in force plans to dissolve the lesser monasteries, the ones that had but a few monks. He intended to pension off the abbots and priors and move the monks to larger establishments.

  Harry had little interest in the plan, except to think that it was not before time. He had little patience with religious houses and was secretly studying the new ideas on religion. It was nothing new; he had studied these works with Anne when they believed they would be husband and wife.

  When he finally rose from his bed, his groom was talking while helping him on with his clothes. He chattered on about events at court, about how the King was in favour of closing the monasteries and more importantly for Harry, the state of the King’s marriage.

  “How do you know these things, James?” Harry asked. “Do you have a spy in the Palace.”

  “Tis common knowledge, My Lord,” he replied. “Tis said that Secretary Cromwell wants to break up the monasteries and give the lands and income to swell the King’s coffers. The Queen has other ideas.”

  “Oh?” said Harry. “What ideas?”

  “She is in favour of using the money to build more schools and universities and for charitable uses, to help the poor.”

  Harry smiled. It was just like Anne, to think of those less fortunate, and she was right. The King had enough money and when Harry died, he would have Northumberland. He did not need the monastery money; t
he poor did.

  “I expect Cromwell will have his way, though,” said James. “He has the King on his side. But I hear the argument has become quite heated, that the Queen has fallen out with Cromwell about it. They used to be great friends, but no more.”

  “I hope you are wrong,” said Harry, choosing his words carefully. “Cromwell is very powerful.”

  He said no more. He knew how dangerous it was to voice one’s thoughts, although he had said nothing which could be turned against him. At least, he hoped not.

  IT WOULD SOON BE SPRING, Anne had recovered from her miscarriage and wanted only to try again. But Henry had not come to her and she could not do it alone. She tried to tell herself that he was being considerate, thinking about her health, but she knew that was not in his nature.

  He had mostly ignored her since the loss, and Anne had a strong suspicion that something was happening, something other than his indiscreet pursuit of Mistress Jane Seymour. She sensed that control was slipping away and she could not quite grab hold of it and drag it back.

  These things worried Anne, soured her mood and when she found her young musician, Mark Smeaton, standing in the window of her presence chamber, his eyes following her like a devoted puppy, as always, she was disinclined to humour him.

  “Why do you look so sad?” she asked, but she knew the answer and could give him no comfort.

  “It is of no matter,” he replied.

  “You may not look to have me speak to you as I should do to a nobleman, because you are an inferior person.”

  He flushed, turned his face away to hide his blushes.

  “No, no,” he said hurried. “A look will suffice.”

  When he had left, she felt a twinge of pity, but her words were true and needed to be said.

  She had more important things to concern her that day, first among them being how to tempt the King back to her bed. Wearing her most provocative shift, her most aromatic perfume, she steeled herself to go to him. She should wait for him to come to her; she knew that. It was not her place to seek him out, but he was her husband, dammit!