The Most Happy

by Helen R Davis

  “Jesus tells us to give out of our pockets to the poor. “I said. And indeed, many of the monasteries and nunneries did do charity work. I allowed a few to remain, but those who had truthfully been corrupt I had supported being rid of.

  My other ministers were Matthew Parker, my chaplain, and Thomas Howard, Catherine’s uncle. I do not trust Howard, much as I adore his niece. He tells me what I wish to hear, and then goes off and does another thing. I believe he is sympathetic to Spain, although I do not know for certain. Hugh Latimer is here as well. He is a reformer, as am I. Thomas Wriothseley is another, a pragmatist. Sir Thomas Audley completes my list of ministers. He has been here since 1532, and always loyal. Unlike most men.

  Edward often comes to the meetings and indeed, it was he who approved my desire to be rid of Father and replace him with George. And the long days are often rewarded to my children by the time I spend with them in the evenings. Elizabeth has now, not only a doll of Eleanor of Aquitaine, but she has also asked for the dolls of all the queens of England. I told her there were of many, she cannot have all of them, so I asked her to pick five favorite queens of hers. One is me, which I delight in. Another is Elizabeth of York, her grandmother. The others she has picked are Philippa of Hainault and Elizabeth Woodville. It is amusing to play with her, and I join in the game. Once she had a funny contest where the five queens had a beauty contest with each other! I came in just as she and Edward were playing.

  “Here is Eleanor. Here is Philippa. Here is Woodville, here is York and here is Mummy. Arthur, great king of Britain, which is the fairest queen of England?” Elizabeth asked.

  “The fairest queen of all is Mummy!” Edward said. Elizabet smiled, but then took Eleanor and Woodville and made the dolls ‘talk.

  “Woodville, that brat said the Boleyn is fairer than us! That brat is blind! I am the fairest!” Elizabeth made Eleanor say.

  “You are the second. I am the fairest of them all!” Elizabeth made Woodville say, and she made them walk over to the doll of me. I entered

  “Elizabeth, may Mummy play?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Elizabeth said. I took up the York and Philippa dolls and made them speak. Both were gentle queens and I made Philippa ask the other ladies to stop.

  “We are all queens of England, the fairest land in the world. Why must we fight amongst each other?” I made Philippa say.

  Elizabeth is such a joy. She had originally been intended as a wife for Francis, Francois’s, son, but the boy had died the same summer I had been crowned queen regent. I was determined she would be Queen of France, and I continued in negotiations with François, although I knew his second son, henry, was being considered as a husband for an Italian princess, Catherine de Medici. It remained unknown whom he would marry Henri, his son, too. I prayed to God he would decide upon Elizabeth, but I knew alliances changed with the wind. A part of me wants her to be with me here, forever. But I must not do that. I remember once hearing Katharine of Aragon had wanted to remain with her mother, Isabella, forever. Perhaps, though, it would have been better for that woman if she had. She should have remained Princess of Spain, and never called herself Queen of England.

  Henry is growing. He is now three years old, and for him and Edward, I believe marriages with England would be feasible. For Edward, I have betrothed him to his cousin, Jane Grey. She is but a girl of two, but I must have the alliance and security of this promise from the Grey clan. As for Henry? He is three and a Duke of York is not as important as Prince of Wales.

  Chapter 10

  1540

  Two years have passed. Edward is becoming more of a king each and every day. He has begun requiring people to kneel to him when he enters the room, although he has ordered all of us, including his sister and myself, to kneel to him five times when we enter the room. Even Henry never required more than three kneelings, but perhaps my son must do this to feel he really and truly is the King.

  He is the King in name, but as always, when a minor is king, the power lies in the regent and the ministers. There has been a scandal involving Cromwell. I have allowed some of the monasteries to remain open, but I have discovered that he has been stealing money from the crown for his own private coffers. He is in the Tower now, awaiting his sentence.

  I have tried as much as possible to avoid bloodshed as queen, but inevitably, any monarch must. Edward, of course, is the one who now signs the warrants for deaths and the like, but they are read by myself first.

  As a widowed queen and regent, I face many marriage proposals. I have a right to remarry, of course, but this is a consideration I must undertake carefully. A domestic husband would cause strife among the nobles; a foreign husband would use me to claim England as its appendage and control my son! If I were to have remarried and it been my choice —God forbid I speak these words— but I do think them-- it would have been Henry Percy, but that could not have been. Indeed, my mind wandered to three years prior, in the winter of 1537, being told of the death of my first love…

  1537

  “Sister, I bring news from Northumberland.” My brother, George Boleyn stated to me as he entered my privy chambers, where I warmed myself by the fire. I had returned from hawking that day, a sport I still enjoyed in spite of the fact it brought back memories of Henry, but the snow had begun falling harshly. Still, I had had a good day hunting and my bird, Noisette, was now inside.

  “From Harry Percy?” I asked him. Once, thirteen years ago, I had been a girl in love and the mere mention of his name sent me into raptures. Now, the name sent me into an amalgam of grief, bitterness, sadness, and anger. Anger at Henry, who had ended it, but made me queen- and then left me alone. Grief at the fact my young love had been struck down. Sadness at his loveless and unhappy union to Lady Mary Talbot, and bitterness at the fact I had been powerless to change anything.

  “Sister, he is dead.” George said as I called for ale and meat to be brought for my brother and myself.

  “Dead…” I said.

  “He… Lady Mary Talbot writes here that he died with your name on his lips. He fell into a fever, sister, thinking you dead.” George said.

  “What happened?” I asked. Dying people often did and said strange things.

  ‘They do not know. They say he fell down a stairwell and hit his head and he began speaking crazy things. That Henry lived and you are dead, you were beheaded.” George said.

  “Then he spoke treason.” I said. I wondered, though, if hitting his head had caused this? I remembered in speaking with Leonardo da Vinci at François’s court and hearing him speak of his discoveries of the human body. But I did not speak these thoughts to my brother.

  “He is dead, sister.” George said. “Nothing can be done.”

  “Well, then…” I said. “May he rest in peace.”

  It could never have been, I tell myself as I remember George and I talking that fateful day. God had decided I would be Queen, and Queen I would be. And indeed, I was praised in England as a good regent. Queen Katharine, it seemed, was now forgotten, a memory of the golden days of my husband’s court. Lady Mary was remembered merely as a girl who had once delighted the king, and a tragic, deceased royal child, much like Edward, the Black Prince. It seemed as though my husband’s memory was now beginning to be remembered, once more, as Great Harry. Forgotten was the unpopularity and fear of the last few years of his reign. And I was now seen as ‘Great Harry’s widow.’ There were those who now spoke of me as an angel of mercy for the charity work I did. It was better this way, I thought, for them to memorialize him as such. It made my work and duty easier. Better to be cheered as ‘Great Harry’s widow’ than ‘the King’s whore.’

  The subject of Spain remains troublesome. Charles V outwardly opposes me and speaks of invading England. The Spanish people, I know, repeat the name of ‘Ana Bolena’ like a curse and a dreadful thing. They say that I am Protestant and I have a harem of Jewish lovers. Ridiculous! I would only marry a Christian, if I were indeed to remarry at all, and Jewish lover
s? How could I have one, let alone many? I’ve heard many of them snuck away to the New World when Isabella, Katharine’s wretched mother, expelled them from Spain. I do not know what to think of the Jews, truthfully, but I know Jesus Christ was one, as was his mother. Why should I hate a Jew, I secretly think, when by the Jews was brought Christ and salvation?

  The people I hate are the Spaniards. I know I should not hate, as Jesus tells us not to, but Katharine’s death has made Spain more, not less troublesome for me! Oh Lord! May you strike Spain into the depths of the sea! May you smile always upon England, the land of my birth, and France the land of my heart!

  In any case, Charles speaks but he does not act. I was taught to expect this from men, and I remember my time in Marguerite of Navarre’s tutelage. Marguerite, the sister of Francois, made quite an impression on me, and as I speak with Elizabeth, I tell her of this woman. She bordered on heresy, it is true, and the only thing that saved her was being the king of France’s sister. Indeed, since becoming Regent, she and I have resumed correspondence, and Elizabeth writes to her too.

  Edward will marry Jane Grey, it has been decided, and Henry will marry Jane’s younger sister, Catherine. Suitors vie for my daughter’s hand as well. Charles has had the audacity to write to me and ask for her as a wife for his son, Philip! Indeed, last year, I received a letter from the very man who curses me, asking for my daughter as a wife to his son! Once more, my mind returns to the past.

  1539

  “A letter from the Emperor Charles.” George says to me one bright summer day as I sit with Elizabeth, reading and fanning ourselves, sipping cool ale.

  “He dares write to me?” I ask as Elizabeth holds her Eleanor of Aquitaine doll to her breast. Lady Bryan is cleaning the others. She dropped all but the Eleanor one into a mud puddle the other day when she was riding.--

  “Probably writing to insult me, I suppose.” I say as I take the letter and open the wax crest of Spain. Inside, however, are not insults, but honeyed tones and suggesting that Elizabeth marry Philip, with threats if I did not comply! As I read this, I faint and I awake with Catherine Howard splashing cold water onto my face. She will soon marry Culpepper, and her plans for her pretty August wedding are all she speaks of. But today she asks me what bothers me, for once thinking of someone besides herself. I do care for this young maiden, but I cannot deny she is incredibly selfish.

  “Your Majesty, what did the dreadful king of Spain write to you?” she asks.

  “It is none of your affair. “ I tell her. But I know Court will know soon enough.

  “I beg your pardon.” Catherine Howard says with a curtsy.

  “You are still nosy, little Catherine Howard.” I tell her. “if I wish to share, I will share. It is not for you to ask this of the queen. But, since you ask, the dreadful king of Spain, as you call him, and as I cannot disagree, has threatened to invade England if I do not give him your niece Elizabeth as a bride to his son!”

  “What will you do?” Catherine Howard asks.

  “I do not know yet. I must pray and seek wise council, Catherine Howard. You prepare yourself for your wedding to Culpepper, which I know is all you care about anyway. This does not cancel your pretty summer wedding.” I assure her.

  “Your Majesty, that is not all I care about.” Catherine Howard says

  “Yes. You care about your pretty gowns and your pretty jewels you wear too.” I say. “It is fine to like these things, little Catherine Howard, but it must be balanced with other things in life.”

  “I’m not a queen. I don’t have to balance things.” She says.

  “You still do have a duty.” I say. “Your duty will be to Culpepper and to bear him children. Mine is to my country and my children.”

  The invasion never occurred, and I wonder how much bravado Charles has. Arrogant, he is, as the Spaniards are, but I must pretend to consider his offer of a marriage of his son to Elizabeth. I shudder at this. Elizabeth foolishly says she will never marry, but that is a fantasy of hers.

  “You will marry, as you are a princess and destined to wed. But I will be certain you do not marry a Spaniard.” I tell her.

  “Spain is a great empire. To be feared.” Elizabeth said. “Charles says his empire is eternal.”

  She bites her lip.

  “They are pride and haughty, the Spaniards, do you not think, my daughter?” I ask her as she holds her doll of Elizabeth of York close. She nods.

  “The Bible teaches pride goes before a fall, Elizabeth. Charles states this, but many kingdoms have risen and fallen, Elizabeth.” I say. Then, I notice she had been reading her Bible and it opened to a passage in the Old Testament, Isaiah 23. I asked her to read it.

  “Wail, o ships of Tarshish, for Tyre is vanquished and left without house or harbor.” Elizabeth states.

  “You see? Tyre was a mighty kingdom, and God made it fall. Many kingdoms have risen and fallen. What it to stop Spain from being another one of them?” I say.

  “Will there always be an England?” Elizabeth asks.

  “Elizabeth, do you take me for a seer? I do not know the future, in spite of what the nasty Spaniards say about me.”

  “They say you are a witch.” Elizabeth said.

  “I am not, and they also lie and say I am unfaithful to Henry’s memory.”. I say. “ Spaniards are not to be trusted, Elizabeth. But England has been here for a long time. I cannot imagine it disappearing.”

  “There will always be an England. And all the Spanish will be at the bottom of the sea.” Elizabeth states, and returns to her reading.

  *

  As for England, there has been a crop failure here. Many people are starving and there are riots. I have ordered grain to be doled out to each family, but there is little I can do. Of course, they blame me and Edward. They always want someone to blame. But it is God who decides these things, not I. And, unlike Henry, I know I am not God.

  But oh, there are times though when I miss him horribly! At night, I get so lonely. I take sleeping draughts to fall asleep at times when the loneliness is unbearable. Little Catherine Howard, the sweet but selfish young thing, until her marriage, slept with me in my bed in my loneliness, but now I Have no one! I awoke one night the last week sobbing bitterly, and the one who came to me was my niece, Catherine Carey, now Catherine Knollys. She has been brought to court and she has married Sir Francis Knollys, and she now tends me. I believe she is Henry’s child, for her resemblance to him is astounding, but he never acknowledged her. In any case, she held me last night, weeping, in spite of the fact that she herself is with child.

  “Aunt Anne.” She said, giving me a tissue as I sobbed in my bed, under a full moon, awakening from a nightmare of Henry again. Sometimes I dream of us together, in our early days. Hawking, hunting, as lovers. I sometimes dream of the days during the Great Matter, when he came to me while abandoning Katharine, and I awaken to find myself abandoned again. Once I even dreamt of myself and Katharine over the childbed of that Seymour white faced thing, and in this nightmare it was she bearing Henry a son, and in it, Katharine and I sucked the lifeblood out of her and the people called it ‘The Joint Revenge of Katharine and Anne.’ The bells tolled for the Seymour, and then I awoke. I am alive, and the Seymour thing still lives. She has retired to the country and birthed a fifth child, last I heard. Katharine, though, is dead.

  At times, my nightmares include the deaths of my sons, and Henry imprisoning me in the Tower, yet I awake, cold and drenched in sweat, longing for him. I know that there are demons disrupting my sleep and dreams. I speak of it to my confessor, who tells me to keep holy water by the bed and sleep again with a rosary. I do so, and these dreams disappear, and I continue to pray before sleeping. The sweats and the demonic visits stop, but not the longing for Henry. I suppose this is something I must always deal with though. I must tend to the famine. I must continue my duties as Queen. My longings are private and must remain between myself and my confessor, but I sometimes wish, in my moments of feminine weakness, than Henr
y could hold me again.

  Chapter 11

  1542

  Two years had passed, and I had been in communication with François I of France, my longtime friend, about two things—my charming daughter and the subject of Spain. Relations with France had improved since I had become Regent of England. My son wondered why I was so friendly with France, when he asked if they had defeated us in the Hundred Years War, to which Elizabeth had replied, “Any nation is better than Spain!” I laughed at my son and my three children. Edward loved England the most, I thought, Elizabeth merely hated Spain, and Henry was vain and narcissistic, even at a young age. But he still studied, for as Duke of York, he knew he was in line to become the next King, should something happen to his brother.

  “Your mother was welcomed and adored in the courts of France.” I told Edward.

  “Indeed. The Spanish ambassador said you are more French than a Frenchwoman born.” Edward stated. I smiled at that. Eustace Chapuys, a supporter of Katharine and Mary, had always hated me. Even when I had become Regent, he still referred to me as ‘the Concubine.’ He remained as ambassador, but I had no doubt that he and Charles still communicated with each other. There was no war with Spain, not yet, but each nation remained on edge. I wrote to François often, who often included gifts to me in his letters. They were not the same as Henry had given me, not jewels, but they are flattering nonetheless. Still, except for a candlestick he sent me, I’ve sent them all back. Does he think to make me, a Regent, his mistress? I’ve no desire to supplant Eleanor of Austria, as I did Katharine of Aragon. Yet, I will admit the title of Queen of France tempts me. But if it cannot be myself, it will be Elizabeth.

  Yet Elizabeth is so difficult on this!

  “I will never marry, Mother. Not the Dauphin of France, nor the Prince of Spain, nor anyone!” she insists loudly.