The Most Happy

by Helen R Davis

  “Maria, it is so good to see you. Please, do tell me, bring me news of my daughter. I have heard of what the Concubine has done to her, but I remain steadfast. She must be queen.” Katharine said.

  Maria inhaled deeply. Katharine was still queen, Maria knew, regardless of what Anne Boleyn said. But did Katharine not know of her daughter’s death?

  “Has no one told you?” Maria de Salinas asked.

  “I am met with silence when I ask my servants. They still call me queen. What do they hold from me?” Katharine asked.

  “Knowledge that would destroy you. My queen, my lady, I hate to tell you this, but the Princess Mary is dead.” Maria de Salinas said.

  “Dead?” Katharine gasped. This could not be! With Mary dead, all of Katharine’s fighting had been for naught!

  “Mary, dead?” Katharine repeated. No! England would now be lost forever! She hoped Maria was lying. “Maria, tell me it is not so! Tell me she is ill, that she will recover!”

  “I cannot lie to my mistress, the true queen.” Maria said. “She died of the Sweat 3 months ago.”

  A low moan escaped Katharine’s lips. Mary, her beloved daughter, dead? Surely this was Anne’s doing! It could not be any other way! Anne was a witch who had killed her beloved daughter! Katharine would accept no other explanation.

  “The whore killed her!” Katharine gasped angrily. Katharine was a righteous daughter of Spain, and Anne had been corrupted by the evil French court. Isabella had often warned Katharine about the wickedness of the French people, and no more was it more evident than in the actions of Anne Boleyn. Though her rival was an Englishwoman, Katharine knew Anne’s heart was French. And a more wicked heart there never had been! With no Mary to become queen of England, what would become of this country now?

  “Maria!” Katharine gasped. “Inglaterra es perdida. Inglaterra es perdida, a causa de la puta francesa!”

  England is lost, because of the French whore, Katharine had stated. Katharine and Maria visited, spending their last few days together. But when Katharine heard of the death of her daughter, all her hope was lost.

  “Your only hope now is in Jesus. He is the resurrection and the life.” Maria de Salinas told her old mistress.

  “No. Maria, England is lost because of the puta. I cannot believe God has allowed the wickedness of France and the perfidy of England to triumph over the righteousness of Spain!” Katharine said. “My husband, Maria. Has the Whore also been rid of him?”

  “No. He is still alive. Write to him, Your Majesty. Perhaps if he will take you back…” Maria implored Katharine. She still believed Henry would return to her mistress.

  Katharine still penned one last letter to Henry. With Mary gone, her hope was gone, and Katharine’s only request was to be buried with her little daughter. She had taken a splinter of the true cross with her from Spain. Intending to give it to Mary, she now asked to be buried with it. And dying, cold and grey, she wrote Henry a letter. ‘I make this vow, mine eyes desire you above all things. Farewell.’ And signed it

  ‘Katharine the Queen-’

  As Kathrine signed her last letter, she laid back into her bed. Maria held her mistress’s hand, feeling it grow colder. Maria had no doubt Katharine would enter Paradise. And indeed, Katharine now , felt Earth slipping away from her. Gone was England, the land that had been her gaoler. Gone was Spain, the land of her birth. Gone was France, the land she and her mother had despised. Instead, Katharine was greeted with the comforting arms of Jesus, the Christ, and her mother, Isabella. Jesus rode to her on a white horse and welcomed her into Heaven. Mary was also at Jesus’s side—both her daughter and the Blessed Mother.

  “Welcome to Paradise.” The Virgin stated. Isabella smiled.

  “Welcome, little Catalina.” Isabella said. Isabella had not failed Katharine in her life, and she did not fail her now. At Isabella’s side was Joan of Arc, a woman who Castile’s greatest queen had always admired, in spite of her hatred of Joan’s homeland. In Heaven, there was no more rivalry between Europe’s three great nations, and Saint Joan welcomed Katharine into Paradise as well.

  “Bienvenue.” Joan of Arc stated, and Katharine rejoiced to enter Paradise. And with that, Katharine of Aragon, Isabella of Castile, and Princess Mary were reunited in Heaven, the two queens and rejected princess being given the love and peace in the next world they had all been denied in this one.

  Chapter 5

  January-February 1536.

  “Dead?” Henry stated as Thomas Cromwell him news of the death of the princess dowager.

  “She is dead, my lord.” He repeated.

  “Dead?” Henry stated again.

  “She died and asked to be buried with the Lady Mary.” The messenger said. “And she left you this.”

  “What is it?” I asked, a heavy realization coming on me. Katharine’s death has made me less, not more, safe. Even with a son…

  “A piece of the true cross that came with her from Spain.” Cromwell states, letting it fall carelessly from his fingers. “She said in her last moments you have been bewitched by a French whore, and that she, a righteous daughter of Spain, wished only for you.”

  I sniff at that. Spain! The stupidest nation in Europe! Righteous? A land where they burn humans to death? I am reminded of Jesus’s condemnation of the Pharisees when I think of the so-called ‘Holy Inquisition.’ Of course, I do not speak these thoughts aloud. If Henry knew of my true thoughts…

  Cromwell leaves.

  “What will you do?” I ask Henry.

  “Have a joust to celebrate!” Henry states. “The harridan and her daughter are dead and can harm us no more! Of course, you will not be there. You must go into confinement and bear my next son.”

  So, I am to be shut away, as I was when I birthed Edward and Elizabeth. Last time I protested, saying that Henry and I had broken so many customs, what was one more. Henry had insisted, and this time I knew better than to protest him. All news of the outside world is kept from me, so as not to endanger the child. I am left alone with my thoughts. The truth is, I do cry at Katharine’s death, for several hours actually. My ladies are confused, among them Jane Seymour, who has asked to leave to attend Katharine’s funeral. I refuse her, of course. Why am I crying? I do not know. Many of them dismiss it as hysteria of a pregnant woman, and that is probably true. The truth is, I cry out of fear and an uncertain future.

  The month of January passes, and I go into labor. This labor is much quicker and while I would never describe any labor as ‘easy’, the child is born without difficulty. It is a male, a Duke of York. He will later compensate his mother for his easy labor by being the child from Hell, but I know it not at the time. I name him Henry and ask for everyone to fetch the king, but my commands are not obeyed.

  “Why are you silent? Why do you not tell me of my husband?” I ask. But no words are spoken. I am left with nothing to do but wait to recover, and I am grateful for the rest. But then the news comes.

  “The king has asked for the queen.” I hear Cromwell telling sly little Jane Seymour.

  “The queen is dead.” Jane says.

  “Has she passed then?” Cromwell asks.

  “No. I mean the real queen. Her funeral was today. The Concubine would not let me go” Jane says. Oh, that simpering idiot!

  “The king has asked for Anne Boleyn, the only true and lawful queen. And she had best make haste.” Cromwell states.

  I am told I have no time to don a proper gown, the king wants me immediately. So I splash myself with my perfume of violets and champagne and am led down the corridors of Hampton Court. It is nighttime and the torches that light the palace emit an eerie glow. I enter Henry’s chamber. In shock, I see that though he lives, he is near to death.

  “My love! Annie! Nan!” Henry states as I am brought to him. My heart sinks. He is dying! In spite of it all, I do love him, and have done so for years now. Henry kisses my hand as I come to his bedside.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Annie �
��when I jousted— Henry Norris —he —his lance came through me. I recovered, but they have said my blood is poisoned and they have bled me. I am dying, Annie. There will be no recovery this time. I know my end is near.”

  “No, my husband!” I beg.

  “Annie… listen to me. You are the mother of my son. And I was told you have borne me a Duke of York to back him up?” Henry says. I nod, scarcely believing what is happening.

  “I have named him Henry. In your honor.” I state, as tears come from my eyes.

  “Annie, my dove. Edward is not even three. You know, my dear, what happened to the princes in the tower. I will not make the mistake my grandfather did. Cromwell, come.” Henry says. Cromwell comes forth into the dim candlelight and even in the weak light of winter, I notice the man resembles a toad. A sweating toad, at that!

  “Anne. I declare you will be Regent of England until Edward is of age.” Henry states.

  “My lord, this is too great an honor.” I say, although queen regents are not unheard of. Margaret Beaufort, his own grandmother, was even Regent on his behalf. Even the princess dowager was one while Henry was at war some twenty years ago. But this! I would not be queen regnant, but it would be very close! And indeed, I had been crowned as a queen regnant, two and a half years ago… But I have no time to reminiscence of that. Henry continues speaking.

  “Anne. You will be good, do not fear. I will order the court to look after you. As the mother of my son, you must have this honor. I have written this document in my last days, declaring you the Regent of England and any children you bear me the only true heirs. And you will have all the power.”

  “I am a woman.” I say. How ironic, I think. He has torn his country a part for a male heir, and as he is dying, he leaves the country in his wife’s hands. He will crown a wife of his, but not a daughter!

  “I know. I know that.” Henry said. “But you are my own true wife. I trust you, Annie. And…” He says nothing.

  “Go now. I must make confession. I will say this though. I love you, Annie.” Henry says.

  He lives for a week after this, holding onto life stubbornly. He wants to be certain I am recognized as regent and the order of succession will go as this: First, Edward, Prince of Wales. Then Henry, Duke of York. Then Elizabeth, princess. Then Henry Fitzroy. The week passes and then on February 4th, 1536, Henry VIII, King of England and head of the Church of England, breathes his last breath. I look down on his body. This was the man who broke away with Rome for me. This was the man who said he loved me. Any man can say that, even a king. But it is also the man who tore apart his country for me and destroyed his old life. What will I do now? How will I proceed? I must now fight as hard for my children as the princess dowager once did for her only daughter…

  Chapter 6

  Spring 1536.

  Before a coronation for my young son, I am inspected to be certain I am not with child by the midwives. Of course, there is no way I could be, having just birthed the Duke of York before the king’s death. Nonetheless, tradition is tradition. I am inspected by the midwives. I hear them chatter amongst themselves, saying that I poisoned the king. Of course, I did not. Jousting accidents occur, it is known. Finally, I speak.

  “Thank you. Now, ladies, you know, do you not, that King Henry VIII declared me Regent in his last will and testament for the young Prince of Wales? Now King Edward VI?” I say. The midwife turns white as a sheet.

  “Lady Anne…” she says.

  “I am Queen Anne. I have been Henry’s wife since three years ago, and I am now regent for my boy. You know, do you not, that to speak against me is treason?” I say.

  “Your Majesty!” the midwife says. “I…”

  “I will show you mercy this time.” I say. “But if I hear you say that I poisoned my husband, King Henry VIII, ever again….”

  I let the statement drop. It is still debated what will be done with Henry Norris, as his lance is the weapon that killed the king. He is now in the Tower, awaiting judgment. It was none of my doing, and it shall be none of my affair. I will allow him to be tried in the Tower of London.

  I must now begin planning both Henry’s funeral and my son’s coronation. As a gesture of goodwill to show I am a woman of mercy and not the hateful witch who poisoned the princess dowager and the Lady Mary, I pay for a suitable monument to them both. I cannot acknowledge Katharine as queen or Mary as princess, for to do so would be to render my own children illegitimate, but I do name them as Katharine of Aragon and Mary Tudor, a loving mother and her daughter. I also do agree to Katharine’s request that she and Mary be buried together. There is no harm in that. They are both dead , after all. Silently, I pray they find peace in Heaven. I am less certain if Henry will be there.

  During this time, my consolation is music. Mark Smeaton, a kind young lad who came to court a while ago, has played for me in my chambers. Of course, as the king’s widow, even as Regent, I am watched closely to be certain nothing improper happens. And nothing would, of course. I am queen of the land, Smeaton is a peasant boy. I believe he has fantasies about me. This I cannot allow. I told him plainly he may look, as any other man may, but he may not touch. He wisely responded with ‘No, madam, a look sufficeth.’

  As for Henry’s funeral-- An effigy is made on Henry’s behalf, and his funeral takes place on February 26th. His coffin is dragged throughout London. I, the current ruler on behalf of my son, am not present at the funeral of the old monarch. But I do hear that during the funeral procession, the coffin breaks open and dogs lick at Henry’s blood. I am reminded of Reginald Pole, a cardinal and once a love interest of the Lady Mary, that the prophecy was Henry would be like Ahab and the dog would lick his blood, and I like Jezebel. A shudder goes through me, for Jezebel lived many years after her husband, the old king of Israel in the time of the Bible. Her death was being thrown from a window, and she was trampled underfoot, so that no one could look at her indeed and say ‘this is Jezebel. ‘But I am a reformer. Henry is dead, that is true, but I am no Jezebel. Jezebel spread idolatry in the land of Israel. I, as queen of England, shall spread the Gospel!

  Indeed, that. One of my passions has been a translation of William Tyndale’s Scriptures into English. Tyndale is a man Henry ordered arrested. I believe to have him released and freed, but cannot do so as of yet. As for Henry? He was never completely either Catholic or a reformer. I remain a Catholic but I do believe reformation in the church is needed. But that is something I can think about later. I must be certain Edward is crowned and I must be certain he and both of his siblings have a rigorous education. I believe Edward will be king, but I need to realize that something could happen to him or to Henry. As such, I will have all three of my children educated in the most rigorous manner possible.

  Elizabeth? I will admit this secretly. She is my favorite child. Yes, she is just a girl, but she looks the most like her father of the three children. She also has a lot of me in her. Henry is too young, and I pray he lives, and Edward is somewhat pallid, though he is healthy. The possibility of her being queen is remote, if not impossible. But I will have a grand match for her. In fact, I think she would be a good Queen of France! I wonder if François I, whose court I frequented when I was a young girl, would take her as a wife for one of his sons. Politically, he opposed my marriage to Henry, as his second wife, Eleanor, is—was- related to Katharine of Aragon. Personally, he congratulated me upon my coming marriage to the king. This was back in 1532, in Calais, in October. I remember it now, dancing with him. Henry was still alive, still king, and he had just made me the Marquess of Pembroke in my own right.

  1532

  “Mistress Anne.” Came the voice of a masked man as we danced together in the autumn light, the fires burning brightly.

  “I am no Mistress Anne. I am Queen Guinevere of the Summer Country, and I feel alone in this autumn cold.” I say. But as I cannot fool François, he cannot fool me. He removes his mask, as do I.

  “You are a fair lady, Anne, that is certain.” He says.
François is dark, swarthy and handsome. I remember his many mistresses, and serving his long-suffering wife, Queen Claude, who bore him many children and endured his mistresses faithfully, much as Katharine had done with Henry.

  “You are a fair lady, but I cannot approve of your upcoming marriage to my brother king, Henry. The reasons, you understand, are political, not personal. As King of France, I disapprove. AS your old friend, Anna, I say, well done!” François said with a wink. I laugh just a bit. I do not want to give Henry any hint that I am flirting with François, although I am not yet his wife.

  “And how fares your sister, Mademoiselle Marie?” François asks. He is kind to ask. Indeed, it was my sister giving herself to François, and then to Henry, that caused me to guard my chastity well. In spite of being called the Great Whore of Europe, I have only given in to Henry on this trip—indeed, last night, I welcomed him into my bed for the first time. But he asks of Mary now, not myself. I know François thinks little of Mary, calling her a grand whore, infamous above all. Nonetheless, I answer him.

  “Mary has found contentment away from court life. She is a widow with two children.” I answer. François shrugs.

  “I always knew you were the one destined for greatness, Anna.” He says with a wink as he leaves to join Queen Eleanor.

  I am returned to the present. Mary- my sister, not the deceased former princess was banished from court permanently in 1534, after she married a lowly commoner, William Stafford. I myself ordered her to leave. Henry and I wished never to set eyes on her again. Now that I am Regent though, perhaps I can write to her and send her a sum for her troubles. My own mother says Mary is now dead to her, as does George my brother. Ah, George. He has come to court in my regency. He and I were close when I was younger, but my elevation to queen regent has caused me to desire him near me again. His wife, Jane Rochford Boleyn, an unpleasant creature, was until lately one of my ladies-in-waiting, but I have dismissed her, along with that Seymour white-faced thing.