The Most Happy

by Helen R Davis

  “Mother. I believe you are ill.” Charles said, and he called for a servant to bring her wine. Juana did drink the cup of wine and began to convulse.

  “You have betrayed and poisoned me!” Juana said. He had not put in enough poison to kill her, but enough to declare her statements treasonous. Juana would now die.

  “To speak against the King of Spain is treason.” Charles said.

  “But I am Queen of Castile! My father, Ferdinand is King of Aragon! A queen cannot commit treason!” Juana said.

  “You were Queen of Castile. Now, you shall join your sister.” Charles said.

  “Catalina” Juana said, as Charles took a dagger to his mother’s throat and slit it, letting her die. And with that, Juana of Castile, the true queen of her nation, robbed of her inheritance as her sister had been, and the last of the children of Ferdinand and Isabella, breathed her last. The Trastamara line was truly dead…

  Chapter 8

  1538

  Edward had grown and was nearing five years old now. I had brought him into many meetings in Parliament dressed in the robes of state. The past year and a half had been eventful, to say the least. As Regent, my religious policy was to avoid bloodshed as much as I could. Jesus had said we were not to kill others, and indeed, he even stated that being angry at one in one’s heart was the same as murder. In pondering upon these words, I thought often of Wolsey, Katharine and Mary, all of whom I had hated. Indeed, our hatred of Wolsey was one of the few things Katharine and I had agreed upon. I had hated them, and all were now dead. I spent some time in prayer and fasting for them privately. I had deeply wronged Lady Mary the most. Death must have come as a blessing for her. Indeed, I had become proud while I had been Henry’s consort, especially after birthing Edward. Mary had remained defiant, but her position, I wondered if she would have done elsewise.

  Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire has rallied the people of Spain against me. The man who did not lift a finger to help his aunt while she lived now uses her memory against me in Spain. Our dislike of Spain was one thing Henry and I had agreed upon. Indeed, he had told me of a time that Katharine refused to accompany him to bear baiting match, and she had said she found the torture of animals distasteful. Henry had claimed ‘Ah, how strange coming from Spain, where they make a spectacle of torturing people!’ Indeed, Katharine had been taught by Isabella who had been taught by that fierce zealot, Torquemada. I had never met the man, but growing up in the French court, the tales of Spain frightened me. Indeed, I had heard Katharine and Mary Telling Henry I was a witch. I am not, of course. Witchcraft is wicked.

  Henry Norris was put to death in the summer of 1536, around the same time Henry’s bastard son, Fitzroy, died of the Sweat. Norris was sentenced to be either beheaded or hanged, drawn and quartered. I commuted his sentence to beheading. As he had killed Henry, I could not pardon him. But I made certain his death was swift, and I even called for a headsman from France so he would be executed with a sword, and not an axe. It was said his final words were praise for ‘Good Queen Anne, for allowing me to die mercifully and not the traitor’s death I deserve.’ And so he died, the last of those whose heads rolled for my Henry.

  Now, to speak of other things. On the subject of religion, I remain a Catholic but a reformer at heart. I have been corresponding with Martin Luther in Germany. He is an odd sort of man. His ideas about only grace and faith and scripture are interesting, but I am not a complete Lutheran. Edward, of course, has taken the title of Supreme Head of the English Church. As a woman, I cannot do that. But. The thought of religion comes to my mind often.

  Henry himself ordered many Lutherans burnt. I cannot appear to be too openly sympathetic, but I have pardoned William Tyndale, whom Henry had ordered arrested. and I have met with him He was praying for Henry’s eyes to be opened, and indeed, this year, I am allowing Bibles to be printed in English. We met about a month ago. He is a good man. I like him.

  “Good queen Anne.” He had stated when I welcomed him into my presence.

  Thank you for your mercy and clemency. And for God using you to spread the Gospel.”

  ‘The pleasure is mine, Master Tyndale.” I said.

  “You know do you not, Good Queen Anne, of the story of Esther?” he asked me.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “About the disposal of Queen Vashti and Xerxes making Esther queen.’ Tyndale said, I could see the point he was making. Reginald Pole had spoken me of as Jezebel. Did Tyndale instead like me to Esther and Katharine to Vashti?

  “My good lady, God made Esther queen in a turbulent time. And though it is an odd thing for a woman to rule as you do as Regent, who knows if he made you queen for such a time as this?” Tyndale said.

  “I thank you, Master Tyndale.” I said. Esther was a far better queen than jezebel was!

  “Vashti refused to obey her husband and was punished for it. “Tyndale stated. I agreed with Tyndale and liked the flattery, but I did wish to debate, as I had been taught to in the courts of France.

  “Did God punish Vashti or did her husband?” I asked, for indeed, the longer I lived without Henry, the more I saw it had been him, not myself or not myself. Although I dared not say this. I had obeyed Henry, as a wife should, but in fear, not in love.

  “The bible says wives are to be submissive to their husbands.” Tyndale said.

  “Indeed, but I read here, Sir Tyndale, that Vashti refused to dance naked for men to whom she was not married. Does the bible not also command modesty?” I asked him.

  “Ah.” Tyndale said. “Good Queen Anne, I see why you have spared me. And why God has made you Regent. You know, with your hand of sowing mercy, rather than bloodshed, your reputation in England is changing.”

  “Am I now the good whore?” I asked in humor

  “Some still call you that. But I hear shouts of Good Queen Anne just as often.” Tyndale said.

  I had as well. Indeed, the other day, I had been heralded as such by an old woman in London. The threat of Spain against England was always one to rally the people together.

  As always, I continued spending time with my children. Henry was toddling now, still too young to join the lessons, but he was a wild, nasty child. He looked just like his father, and he acted like him. Indeed, today when I went in to see my children, Henry was running around with Elizabeth’s doll! I wondered how he had gotten it, since the boys and girls were kept separate, and I asked him.

  “Henry! You naughty boy! How did you get into Elizabeth’s room?” I asked. Henry stuck his tongue out at me and instead threw the doll across the room, giggling in a cruel way. I shuddered. He was an infant of two and a half, but he already resembled his cruel father. I remember my reading in Romans that I had begun my day with ‘For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ An innocent baby… already doing this? If he is this cruel to a doll… thank God he is second in line.

  “Lizzie give Henry dolly!” Henry said, and he threw the doll on the floor, severing its arm. Unlike when I HAD fixed the head, the arm was shattered. I swatted him on his bottom. He burst into tears.

  “You are very mean and naughty to do this to your sister’s doll! That is something her father got her for her to remember him by!” I said. He didn’t care. I decided to go to Elizabeth and tell her.

  I had little time with Edward, but more with Elizabeth. When I went into Elizabeth’s room, she was studying French. Indeed, the earlier to learn a language, the better. I showed her the doll, but she shrugged.

  “Henry is like that.” She said.

  “Like what?” I said.

  “Wild and angry. I ignore him.” Elizabeth said. “Mama, how do I say yellow in French? I can never remember.”

  “It’s jaune, my dear.” I say.

  “Thank you. I thought verte was yellow.” Elizabeth said.

  “No. Verte is green.” I said.

  “They say if I learn French, I can also learn Italian and Spanish and Latin.” Elizabeth said. I smiled at her.

&n
bsp; “Yes. I can read French and Latin. Why Spanish, Elizabeth? That is the language of our mortal foe.”

  “Is France or Spain England’s foe, Mother?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Well.” I said. Indeed, she had a good question. I remembered once Henry telling me that he didn’t marry Katharine, England married Spain. Indeed, both England and Spain had hated France at the time of their alliance. But alliances changed.

  “Well, Elizabeth, France has been our foe for about five hundred years. But many English kings married French princesses.”

  “I read about a maid in France who fought England. They burnt her.” Elizabeth said. I knew of whom she spoke. Joan of Arc…

  “Joan of Arc was not…” I said. Of course, France had been our enemy then. But to die in such a horrid way! There was a reason why I, both as queen consort and queen regent, had both saved lives from burning and never ordered anyone burnt!

  “I am to be Queen of France, mother. As such I am learning about it.” Elizabeth said.

  “Wise of you to do so.” I said. But I wondered at her mind. She was half Boleyn and half Tudor.

  “Elizabeth, it is good to learn of France, but…” I tried to say this.

  “I must remember England first.” Elizabeth said.

  “Of course. But to answer your question, our main foe is Spain. Ever since the naughty lady who wanted to be queen in Mama’s place came to England, Spain has used England against France.”

  “So neither nation is our friend. Fie on both of them!” Elizabeth said. I could not disagree with my daughter, much as I loved France.

  “England will rise to greatness, I believe. But much work must be done. Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ I told her.

  “England will rise and rule Europe one day. And Mother? The doll is of no importance to me.” *Elizabeth said. “In fact, it’s old. I’d like a new one.”

  “I will get you something.” I said.

  “I want a doll of brave Eleanor of Aquitaine.” Elizabeth said, with a spark that reminded me of myself.

  “Well…” I said. I didn’t know if I could promise her this. She had an amazing mind though and I delighted in her questions.

  “I cannot promise it.” I said.

  “But you’re the queen” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, but where would I find such a thing?” I asked with a laugh. “Nonetheless, there are doll makers in London. I will try.”

  “You are the queen. They will obey you.” Elizabeth said.

  I smiled to myself and yes, I decided I would have a doll made for my little girl. I wondered if Edward wanted anything, and I went to ask him.

  “May I have a book on the Kings of England, Mother?” he asked.

  “Of course.” I said. Henry was too young to ask, but I would stitch him some stockings. I always embroidered things and Elizabeth was taking after me in terms of needlework.

  “Thank you.” Edward said. He was very polite, and I thought to myself he was the kindest of my three children. He would be a kind king. But he would need to learn justice as well as mercy.

  Chapter 9

  1539

  So much of ruling is tedious. While Henry had been king, he had mostly spent this days hunting and performing masques, to the extent that he had squandered much of the money his father, Henry VII, had saved. He had only met with his ministers about an hour every day. He had still been the king, of course, but teaching Edward was a challenge, as he often heard the courtiers reminiscence about the days of parties, masques and hunting. He asked me why he couldn’t have fun.

  “You are a king, Edward.” I stated.

  “And I can do whatever I want!” he said with a flash of the temper his father had been notorious for.

  “Well… of course a king may do as he pleases. But a king also must govern a country, Edward.” I said. “And while that is tedious, it must be done. Much of life involves duty, Edward. Duty to your people, duty to your court, and duty to your country. Family and community and guild and country are what matter.”

  Of course, as a child of the Renaissance, I also believed in many of the ideas I had been exposed to at the French court. But it was an important balance of the old world and the new.

  I had many ministers which I had to contend with as Regent. Among them, until lately, had been my father, Sir Thomas Boleyn. He had been made Lord of the Privy Seal when I had been queen consort. My relationship with him had always been uneasy. As a child, I had been the dark haired girl that was not meant for anything other than a nunnery. Father had decided to make a lady of me by sending me to France and Holland, believing I would contract marriage there with an Italian or Spanish nobleman. But I had not, and when I had been sent home to England in 1522, he resented me for my refusal to marry James Butler and my romance with Henry Percy, even beating me severely after the romance had ended. While I Had been courted by Henry, Father encouraged me to become his mistress, often angered at my refusal. I had held out for marriage and a crown and he at last softened when I became queen consort. But at my ascension to queen regent, Father had been a minister I could barely trust. Indeed, last year I had gotten rid of him as a minister and replaced him with my brother, George Boleyn. Mother died last April. I attended her funeral in the countryside, as did George. My older sister also came as well, but I did not speak to her.

  My sister, now known as Mary Stafford, remains isolated in the countryside with her new husband, the farm boy. Of course, this lad has a name. and it is William Stafford, but privately to myself I call him ‘the farm boy.’ I think little of him, if I think of him at all. Mary has written to me, begging for money and finances repeatedly, and for restoration of her position at court. I did send her a golden cup and some money, but I do not speak to her besides that. She has made her own foolish decision to marry the farm boy. She must abide by it. Still, I am curious about my nieces and nephews, especially Catharine Carey, her eldest.

  George’s wife, Jane Rochford, continues to be a thorn in his side—and mine. I have her at court, albeit reluctantly. I do not like or trust her, and I believe the feeling to be mutual. As such, I assign her the least pleasant tasks of a lady-in-waiting—emptying my chamber pot and the like. I believe the only thing that keeps her afloat is her burning hatred. I have also had another cousin of mine brought to court as a lady in waiting. Her name is Catherine Howard, and she is young, musically talented, and quite pleasant. She is also quite popular with the men at court, although I watch her closely to be certain she does not engage in lewd behavior. She told me she exchanged kisses with her music teacher.

  “You must never do that again!” I told her severely.

  “My grandmother spanked me for it. But then she let me go off with him.” Catherine Howard said.

  “Your grandmother…” I said. It was known her grandmother reared her in a ramshackle household. What else went on there? Dare I ask? Do I even wish to know? Catherine Howard continued speaking when I gave her my permission to do so.

  “He told me what he was doing was all right.” Catherine Howard said.

  “That foul man lied to you, little Catherine.” I said, angry not at her, but him. Poor child, I thought. It is not her fault. She is so eager to please she will fall into sin to do so. Nonetheless, I must teach her right from wrong, as nobody has thought to do so. The Duchess will pay for her to learn music but not morals? Oh Jesus, what corrupt world is this?!

  “And it is a wicked thing for him to do so. He sinned against you, and you sin when you kiss men you are not married to. You must not kiss any man who is not your husband.” I warn her.

  “But you dance with men in the court.” Catherine Howard said. Indeed, both before, during and after my marriage, I had done so. But courtly love was not the same as adultery, which Catherine Howard was committing!

  “That is different. That is always done. A man may dance with a woman who is not his wife and a woman with a man who is not her husband. Dancing is not kissing, little Catherine Howard. And if your husband were to
catch you kissing another man, he could set you out with nothing but the gown you wear. A husband will be chosen for you, Catharine, and you must be loyal to him.” I stated to her. The instructions were clear, and her face turned into a sad one.

  “Did I sin?” Catherine asked, tears in her eyes.

  “You did. But, so did the man who lied to you and kissed you.” I said. “You must make confession to your priest and tell him you are sorry. And do not do this again. And tell me who he is? This wicked man?”

  “Henry Manox.” Catherine said.

  “Henry Manox shall not approach you ever again.” I say severely, and in that moment, I write to the Duchess, telling her of this man’s wickedness, imploring her to banish him.

  I feel almost like this girl were my own child, although she is not of my body. I am thinking of a husband for her. I know that Thomas Culpepper, a knight in my service, has asked for her hand. I have said yes, but they must not marry for at least a year. Catherine Howard is still too young, and were she to become with child, she would die right away. Of course, childbirth is always risky, but it is better for her, I think to wait a bit. She wants to be married now, but I tell her to enjoy her last year unwed.

  In any case, my other ministers are Thomas Cromwell, whom I keep a close eye on. Privately I call him ‘the sweating toad’, sending Catherine Howard into peals of laughter. Of course, I know my ladies in waiting sometimes laugh at me for being a queen regent behind my back. Catherine Howard is not one of them, but I once overheard Jane Rochford making a nasty joke. I fought back with her, stabbing her in the hand with a fork. Not fatally, but she whimpered. And then likely went off to gossip. As for Cromwell, I have made it clear that the money he got from dissolution of the monasteries when Henry was still king is not for his coffers or private pocket, but for charity.

  “My queen, why?” Cromwell asked.