The Most Happy

by Helen R Davis

  “The king lives, Your Majesty.” He says to me.

  “Is that all?” I ask

  “It was thought that the king had obtained fatal wounds from a lance. Fortunately, bruises only to his pride. He will need rest and to be kept away from commotion.” Doctor Butts said.

  “Is my husband well?” I demand. I hate the dishonesty of some courtiers, thinking to spare one’s feelings! If someone is dead, it must be known!

  “The king will live. But he should probably retire from jousting.” Doctor Butts said with a smile. Finally, my mood lightens.

  “Well, the king will do as the king wishes. Good night, Dr. Butts.” I say, and finally I get some rest as well.

  I am allowed to speak to Henry the next day, but he is moody and gloomy. I know he can be mercurial in his moods, and I cannot tell if his anger is directed at me or at another. At last he speaks.

  “They say, Annie, I should not joust anymore.” Henry says as he calls for ale and oysters.

  “The joust can be dangerous.” I said, taking an oyster. Then, he turns to me and his eyes become small and his mouth as well.

  “Were they predicting my death, Anne?” he asked.

  I do not speak at this. It is treason to speak of the death of the king, even if he is dying. But my silence does not assure him.

  “Annie! Tell me!” he demands.

  “Henry… they told me you would live. But it is dangerous to joust.” I say. I do love him, but even more, I know that if Henry dies, my position will be precarious.

  “Are you scared, Anne?” he asks.

  “Of what?” I ask.

  “If I were to die. You have borne me a son.” He said.

  “Yes, I have. But as long as Katharine and Mary live, I fear for my safety.” I said.

  “The Lady Mary will remain in your household, where you can keep a close eye on her.” Henry said. “As for the princess dowager, I would rather go from door to door than forsake you.”

  “You would, Henry, but…” I say. I cannot speak my fears, for even in speculation, they would be treason.

  “But what?” Henry asks.

  “I forgot my words, my lord. I beg your pardon.” I quickly say. But the questions remains unspoken —should Henry die, will being the mother of the Prince of Wales keep me safe?

  Chapter 3

  March 1534.

  I am pregnant again. This child that grows in me is healthy and strong, I can tell from its kicks. Of course, I do not know if it is a boy or a girl. Some of my ladies have tried to predict a boy by placing a string over the cradle. There is a legend that says the string will go to and fro for a boy and round and round for a girl. I scorn it. It is superstition and witchcraft. Superstition is folly and witchcraft evil. Whatever God gives me, I will accept. Of course, I prefer a son.

  The incident in the jousting last fall in Prince Edward’s honor is forgotten. With the birth of a son, the mood of many of the courtiers previously loyal to the princess dowager has changed. My mother has warmed to me, even. My father has been made an Earl, and my brother, George’s position has been elevated. My sister remains at court with me, but she if often absent. I wonder if she has a lover? Her husband, William Carey, died six years ago when the Sweat overtook England during ‘the king’s great matter.’ I fell ill too, and many at that time whispered that it was a sign from God that Henry needed to set me aside and that Katharine was his true wife.

  Ah, Katharine. She remains troublesome. The princess dowager, of course, refused to give Edward Lady Mary’s christening robe! She continues to write to the king, urging him to abandon me and his lifestyle of sin and to take her back, lest he damage his soul. Henry never responds to her letters, except once. He wrote back to her that I am the mother of the heir, and as such, the only true queen is myself, Anne Boleyn. He even threatened to have her executed which, in spite of my hatred for Katharine, chilled me. She may not be the Queen of England, but she is still the daughter of the King of Spain! If he were to kill her, what would happen should I lose his favor? Unlike Katharine, my royal status is from Henry’s love, not birth.

  Henry assures me that will not happen. I am the mother of his heir. I am his beloved and true wife. Very well, I know, but I have no doubt he once assured Katharine with the same words. In spite of my hatred for her, I still feel pity for her. I am reminded of a time, long ago, when I was her subject and she my queen, before Henry began to pursue me. It was ten years ago…

  1524

  “You know why I am banished from court, Your Majesty.” I say to Katharine, the queen of England, to whom I am a lady-in-waiting.

  “Yes. And I am sorry for it.” Katharine states. She speaks, of course, of myself and Henry Percy. We had become betrothed the previous spring, after falling in love. I was betrothed to James Butler, an Irish earl, and he to Lady Mary Talbot. Cardinal Wolsey, a great enemy of both Katharine and myself, had been Percy’s master, and he had prevented the match. On one thing, Katharine and I had been united on—and that was our hatred for Cardinal Wolsey. Indeed, in 1530, when Wolsey had fallen from favor, Henry had sent Harry Percy with the warrant for Wolsey’s arrest. There was no need- Wolsey perished on his own.

  Suddenly, I am brought back to the present. Thinking of Percy always makes me sad and nostalgic. Henry has come into my chamber, roaring in anger. The past is forgotten, the present calamities must be addressed.

  “The Pope has declared against me!” Henry said. “He has said my marriage to the princess dowager —which was no true marriage, Annie, she was my brother’s wife, can she not see that?- is valid and has ordered me to return to her!”

  “Are you king or are you not?” I ask. Henry’s face twists into a scowl. Have I misspoken?

  “I am king, Anne.” He said, his face and hand becoming aggressive as he pounds the card table, sending all of the cards flying. I hurry to rescue them, but the one that I pick up first is a crowned queen. The king card has fallen to the floor. But I do not have time to muse upon this as he continues to rage.

  “And I will require all of my subjects to sign and swear the oath of succession, acknowledging you as queen and Edward as Prince of Wales. First it will be Edward. Then Elizabeth. Then Henry Fitzroy. Mary will not be in the line of succession.” Henry says.

  “And what about my next child?” I say, patting my belly as I rise, saving the cards from his wrath.

  “That remains to be seen, Anne.” Henry says. And with that, he turns on his heel and abruptly leaves. I am left with scattered cards. Other than the two I saved, I call for my ladies to pick up the rest. I do not tell them what happened, other than it was an accident. But in spite of my disdain for superstition, I wonder at the crowned queen of hearts.

  Henry can make a document requiring signatures and loyalty. But he cannot force the people to go against their conscience. Of course, there will be consequences, even for his dearest friends. . Among those who refuse to sign are Thomas More, Henry’s old friend, whom he orders sent to the Tower. In the meantime, I continue my work and influence to Henry, bringing to his attention the work of many reformers. But at night, my dreams are unpleasant and frightful. I dream of my own head on the spike at the Tower of London. If he will do this to his oldest friend? I feel like a fish trapped by a fisherman’s lure. I have taken the royal bait and though I am now Queen of England, it is too late now that I discover what I have bitten on. One morning, I awake bathed in blood, and I know that I have lost the child. I dare not tell Henry…

  Chapter 4

  Autumn 1535.

  I am with child again, but Henry is not as tender to me as he has been in the past. I believe he is growing away from me. The people have become more accepting over me this past year as I have borne a son, but there are still those who do not acknowledge my queenship. Their number is dwindling, but among those who have refused to acknowledge me as queen and my heirs as legitimate are Thomas More and Bishop Fisher. Both men were killed during the summer.

  Thomas More was once Henry’
s dearest friend, I know. But he is said to have stated that if cutting off his head would have won Henry a castle in France, that the king would do it. Blessed Mother, his words were true! Thomas More went to the block saying ‘I die the King’s good servant, but God’s first.’ And Fisher? He was originally sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, a traitor’s death. But Henry commuted his sentence to beheading on Tower Hill. Still, Fisher’s head remains on a pike in London. It was said that Fisher was ordered starved to death. What trap have I fallen into?

  I suppose those who support the princess dowager and Lady Mary believe I spend my days in wild orgies and laughing with the king at the deaths of these men. It is not the case. I know in the back of my mind he could turn against me any day, and I pray and enjoy the few days I have left. To be truthful, I am frightened of the man whom I call husband. I hope God has shown More and Fisher mercy, as my husband has not. Oh, he tells me not to worry and I am allowing myself to fret and fear and it is just the fancies of a woman with child I am the mother of his heir, he reassures me, but he has grown over-attentive as of late to one of my maids, a sly, prim thing. Her name is Jane Seymour. I dislike her, of course, but not merely because she is Henry’s mistress. She is a deceiver and a liar, things that I hate. She holds Henry’s affection as a mistress, much as Bessie Blount and my sister once did, but claims she is virtuous. She calls me queen to my face, but I have heard her saying ‘the real queen’ to her brothers, Thomas and Edward Seymour. Henry has grown cold to me, as he once did to Katharine while he was courting me. The difference is I carry his child. At least for now…

  Henry was angry last year when I miscarried a fetus. It was far enough along to have been determined to have been a daughter, that is true, but that did not make Henry less angry. He blames me for the loss of the child. It did not help that at the time Henry was ranting against me, that my sister had been banished from court for marrying a commoner, a lowly man known as William Stafford. I had just banished her from court the day before, and now this. It was too much for Henry.

  “You lost the boy!” he screamed at me. “And you cannot even keep your sister from making a disgraceful match!”

  “It was a female, my lord, and my sister made her poor choice! She is a foolish woman to allow love to overcome reason!” I said as he ranted and raved, in his temper, throwing a candlestick at the cradle which he had procured for our son.

  “If you lost a girl, you will lose a boy. And how do I know your other family members will not disgrace the crown, Anne?” Henry fumed, throwing yet another candlestick in my direction. Fortunately, for all his temper, his aim was poor, and the objects fell harmlessly to me, if not to the objects themselves. The candlestick he broke this time was one dear to me, one I had taken from my years in the French court. I wince, but then realize that an object can be replaced. The favor of a king cannot, and I try to placate him.

  “I have never disgraced you, my lord, in thought, word, or deed. And as for the baby, we can try again. We are young.” I say. “Not like Katharine…”

  He seemed to have been soothed, and it was in that moment that he forced himself upon me and he and I began a path to become lovers again. I had not become pregnant that time, but around spring of 1535, April to be precise, I became pregnant again with the child I carry, and a Te Deum was sung in thanksgiving. But I wonder to myself is it really my fault? Or was it Katharine’s either? What if it is he who cannot get the children? But I have Edward and Elizabeth, both dear ones. They are close to each other. Both are two years old now, and I recently celebrated their second birthday. I do not often see them, as Henry says it is improper for a queen to see her children, but they are my children. I hate to say this, but Elizabeth is much brighter than her brother. It is not that Edward is dull-witted, but that Elizabeth outshines him in every possible way. Of course, Edward is intelligent too. But I will say this. When I entered the nursery the other day, Elizabeth addressed me as Mama. Edward seemed to have no need of me. Lady Bryan, their nurse, told Edward, ‘that is your mother, the queen.’

  *

  As for Lady Mary, she had been tending the children and changing their napkins, but Lady Bryan tells me she has become ill.

  “Lady Mary will do her duties, as she should do. I am the queen and I outrank her!” I say, and in that moment, I feel the child kicking hard.

  “But, Your Majesty…” Lady Bryan begins to protest. I know Lady Bryan cared for the Lady Mary when she was younger and likely still holds some affection for her. And it is known Mary’s health, unlike my own two robust children, is poor. She suffers from menstrual cramps, pains in her belly and the like. So I will see for myself how ill the king’s bastard truly is.

  “Bring the Lady Mary to me!” I order. That way I can put her in her place!

  But, I soon see that Lady Mary is not feigning illness. She is brought to me, and she is wrapped in a cloak, not a blanket. She has lost an alarming amount of weight. She does not even have the courage to insult me when brought into my presence. In the past, she has called me ‘Concubine’ ‘French whore’ and ‘witch.’ But today she does none of it. She indeed appears very ill, too ill to even hold up her head.

  “Begone. Go rest.” I say. But then I begin to worry. Many know of my hatred of the Lady Mary. If she is to die, would they say I poisoned her? I would be relieved to have her out of the way, to be certain, but the risk of a poisoning is too high. I then begin to hear words spoken that the Lady Mary has the Sweat. It is not known if she will live or die. In trepidation, the court holds its breath. She has no royal standing, but she is still the king’s daughter. It is said she cries out in her sleep, seeing visions of a broken England, should she die. This is treason, we know. Henry orders her arrest and to be taken to the Tower as a traitor.

  But as with Wolsey, the arrest does not come in time. On October 7th, anno domini, 1535, Mary Tudor, once Henry’s beloved pearl of the world and the daughter of his discarded wife, Katharine of Aragon, appears before God. When the news is brought to Henry, he calls for ale to celebrate.

  “God be praised, Anne!” he says. “The harridan’s daughter is dead! Now we need only rid ourselves of the princess dowager, and all will be well!”

  “All will be well indeed.” I say. He then gets up from his chair and dances, asking me to join him. I dare not refuse. I dance today, for indeed, whose turn is next?

  Interlude: The death of Katharine of Aragon.

  December 1535- January 1536.

  Katharine of Aragon, the daughter of their Most Catholic Majesties of Spain, lay dying in Kimbolton Castle. The past decade had been a horrible one of suffering for her. It had begun when Henry had declared the son of his mistress, Elizabeth Blount, to be his heir and given him a grander household than her daughter, Mary, the true princess. The chants in the street of ‘Bless’ee, Bessie Blount!’ had taunted the queen. Katharine had protested Fitzroy’s rise, and in response, Henry had removed her three most cherished ladies-in-waiting and returned them to Spain. Even when Henry had begun a public and humiliating affair with the bewitching Anne Boleyn, Katharine had remained hopeful. But then he had left her and separated her from her beloved Mary, her only child.

  Katharine, like Anne, had loved the man who had turned against her. Even now, she remained in her gray castle at Kimbolton, with little to do but remember the days that Henry had loved her. She remembered the day she had borne him a son, and he had jousted in her honor, as ‘sir Loyal Heart.’ Katharine shed tears, for Anne had borne him a son who had lived! Why? Katharine held onto her title of queen, knowing she must fight for her daughter. When Katharine asked her servants of the princess Mary, she was met with silence.

  “Tell me of my daughter!” the dying Katharine begged her servants. But no words were spoken. Katharine was reminded, in fear and anxiety, of the death of her first husband in 1502, when she had shouted up and down the halls of Ludlow ‘Will no one tell me of my husband’s fate?’ At the time, they had withheld the news from her. Katharine f
eared that Mary was dead, but she would not allow herself to believe it. Besides, as long as no news was given, Mary was all right, Katharine told herself. Katharine prayed and asked God for Mary’s health, for Mary must live and become queen. She must be to England what Katharine’s mother, Isabella, was to Spain. She must save the souls of the English people. As Isabella had expelled Spain of the Jews and Moors, Mary must return England to the true church in Rome. She must be queen! She must!

  December turned to January. Katharine thought of Henry, trying not to think of Anne and him celebrating the Christmastide season together. Long ago, it had been her and him. The winds howled. Katharine’s physician, Dr. Firth, urged her to eat, but Katharine had no appetite for food.

  “I must write to my daughter.” Katharine stated, asking for quill pen and parchment. As Katharine spoke these words, there was a notice from one of her servants.

  “The queen has a visitor.”

  It was Maria de Salinas, her oldest and dearest friend. Maria had come with her from Spain many years ago, in 1501, when Katharine had been a joyous Infanta and the intended betrothed of Arthur, Prince of Wales. Oh! Had Arthur only lived! Katharine had never known him carnally, but she knew him well enough to know he would have been kind to her. Maria and Katharine embraced.