The Most Happy

by Helen R Davis

  I had to remain for Margaret Pole, poor woman, who exited onto the scaffold claiming ‘ a traitor? Not I!” I wish never to see anything like this again, nor did Edward. The poor old woman ran around and the executioner hacked her to pieces, as she would not lay her head on the block. I wish not to recount more details than I already have. Finally, the day was over.

  Edward, Jane Grey, and I left the Tower and returned to Court in silence. When I returned, the court was empty. I asked of my brother George and I was told he was out hunting.

  “Do you care to join him, Your Majesty?” The serving girl asked both me and my son.

  “No, thank you.” Edward said, very politely. I could tell he wished not to have to order anything like this again.

  “Indeed. Let George enjoy himself. For me, there’s bloodshed enough this day.” I replied.

  Chapter 17

  Summer 1548.

  I was dissatisfied. Jane Grey would be marrying Edward next year, as she would be twelve, the minimum age for a bride. But I heard no news from France from Culpepper or Thomas Seymour. Catherine Parr wrote to me, saying she was expecting a child, her first. But Elizabeth did not write to me at all. Catherine Parr said that Elizabeth was alive and doing her duty as Dauphine of France, but that already Henri II had abandoned her bed for that of a mistress, Diane de Poitiers. Despite it all, Catherine wrote, Elizabeth was amenable to Diane, as it what been known many years ago, that the Italian Medici wench had been considered as bride for Henri, and François, but Henri, being a lusty man, had taken mistresses. It was expected.

  “Elizabeth as Dauphine is ignored, while Diane is given the title of Duchess of Valentois.” Catherine wrote to me. I knew only that Elizabeth lived. Henri was tender to her, but, Catherine Parr wrote, Diane de Poitiers wrote his official letters.

  “It is an odd friendship between them. I believe Elizabeth does her duty only out of fear. Diane de Poitiers and her often discuss intellectual things. It is an odd thing, for the wife and the mistress to be friends.” Catherine Parr wrote me. Indeed, it is, but it was the way of France, a way of life I missed. Elizabeth and Diane, I wondered at their discussions. I would never have been able to speak such with Katharine of Aragon. Or Jane Seymour. Though France was the land in which I left my heart, I loved England, the land of my queenship.

  Would England prevail? I had heard of Emperor Charles. Or rather, I had not heard from him. It was too quiet in Spain. Indeed, I wondered at this. Culpepper had traveled to Spain and it was said that they were cutting down their forests at an alarming rate. For what, I wondered? Why sacrifice the beautiful forests? Though Spain was a land I loathed, I figured that the trees of the country were beautiful. I tried to pray for Spain, my mortal enemy, now and always. But I could not.

  “Jesus, I know you tell me to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. But I cannot love Spain, the land of the auto de fe and Torquemada.” I said one early day in May as I looked up at the face of the suffering Jesus on the cross. “I can only entrust that nation to your care.”

  I then looked at the Bible next to the statue of Christ. It was opened to Genesis, chapter 12, the calling of Abraham. I read it to myself.

  “Those who bless thee Abraham, will I thee bless and those who curse thee will I curse.”

  Abraham? I wondered at this. He had been a loyal follower of God, and his seed was the seed by which Jesus had come into the world. But what did this verse have to do with the nation of Spain? I knew that the Lord’s Holy Spirit worked in mysterious ways.

  “Bless Abraham?” I wondered. “And those who curse him?”

  I did not know what to make of this. I carried three nations in my heart—England and France in love, and Spain in disdain. What did this verse mean? I treasured it in my heart, asking God to bless Abraham and England.

  Chapter 18

  1549

  The time had come for Edward and Jane Grey, at last, to be wed. In the absence of Elizabeth and in the dearth of letters from France, Jane Grey had taken Elizabeth’s place as the one who attended me and was in my innermost circle. She was an active Protestant and a budding scholar. Though I supported reform, I still remained Catholic, which was something Lady Jane argued with me on often.

  “I have heard that man can make bread, but not that bread can make man. I do not kneel to the host, for it is not God who made him, but the Baker who made him.” Jane Grey once said. She rarely saw her parents, or her younger sisters, Catherine and Mary Grey. Lady Frances Grey was in line for the throne herself, after Edward and Elizabeth. Jane Grey still spent her time learning and reading. I believed she would be a very good queen and wife to Edward.

  Of course, at Jane’s crowning, it would be a curious thing. I was still regent until Edward attained majority, but I was also the widow and dowager of Henry. Jane Grey would become Queen Consort of England, so there would be an odd status in the nation of two queens.

  I had wanted to wait three more years, until Jane was fifteen, but I could sense she and Edward had an attraction to each other that reminded me of my own love for Henry Percy. Furthermore, Lady Frances Grey would not tolerate any delays in seeing her daughter queen of England. Catherine Grey’s chances had been lost with Henry’s death, and she would waste no time with Jane. Thus, Edward and Jane were married. I was at the wedding, myself dressed in a cloth of white and gold. Jane entered, dressed in a white gown and her hair plaited and woven with jewels in a way many, including myself, thought quite odd. After their marriage, Jane would be Queen of England and I would guide her in her activities.

  Jane and Edward were put to bed that night, and it was known the next morning that the marriage had been consummated when he hung the bloody sheets outside. Soon, we began anxiously awaiting the birth of a new heir. I finally heard of news from France, and it was that Elizabeth had given birth to a stillborn son. She was pregnant again, willing to try again, but suffering greatly in France, cast out of Henri’s light, while Diane de Poitiers took center stage. I was reminded of Katharine of Aragon and myself, yet again. It seemed that the echoes of the past were returning. Myself, Henry’s paramour and beloved and the queen, shut away, neglected.

  Though I would remain Regent for two more years, I began to turn my focus away from this world and to the next. The letters written to me from Elizabeth were tearful and mourning, not at all the bright young girl I had known and loved. I knew that God said we reaped what we would sow. I wondered if Elizabeth’s humiliation at Henri’s hands was retribution for my displacement of Queen Katharine in this time. Jane Seymour’s words, which had led to her condemnation and death at the block had been false in the statement that I had been a witch. But she had not been incorrect to condemn my treatment of Katharine of Aragon. Though I had long ago asked God for forgiveness for my treatment of Katharine and Mary, I was plagued and tormented often by guilt and memories of the past. I did my duties as Regent, of course, but more and more I spent my time in prayer, fasting and begging for forgiveness. I no longer had Jane Grey at my side, or my daughter. Catherine Parr had died in childbirth over in France, and the baby, a girl, died with her. Catherine Culpepper remained at my side, and only her. She, too, was growing old and seemed to be able to think only of her past. The memories of Henry were a chain around my neck now. Jane Seymour had not been entirely incorrect to condemn me. My mind returned to my past.

  1526

  “The king is here!” Mary Boleyn, my sister, told me at our gardens in Hever. I was outside, picking flowers for a bouquet, for it was a lovely, warm day in May.

  “Has he come to take you back to his bed?” I asked her.

  “No, Anne! He is here for you!” Mary said joyously.

  “For me?” I wondered. I was appalled at this. Henry VIII, the king of England, along with Thomas Wolsey, was the man I most despised in the world for his ending of my betrothal to Henry Percy. Nonetheless, the king was the king. He asked for me, and I went to him.

  Henry and my father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, were enj
oying hippocras and ale at a small table, and Henry was speaking of the hunt and the stag he had caught. I curtsied when I entered, of course. Dressed in a green gown and French hood, I noticed Henry’s eyes become desirous as he gazed upon me. I recognized that look- I had seen it often in the French court. Kneeling three times, as custom required, Henry then addressed me.

  “Lady Anne.” He said. He breathed my name as though it were a sigh. Two years ago, he had ordered me banished from court. I said nothing but he continued.

  “You please me greatly.” Henry VIII said.

  “It pleases me to please you” I said, though my words were a lie. This was the last man I wished to please. Though I was his subject, I desired never to see him again.

  “And, daughter, would it please you just as much to be the king’s mistress?” Father asked me. The question took me by surprise. His mistress?! I knew what happened to mistresses. Not merely Mary, but the many mistresses of King François. They were abandoned as soon as the man’s fancy waned. I did not speak, as was proper for a daughter. I merely averted my eyes modestly, as a lady must.

  “You could secure for this family incalculable wealth. As well as the chance to bear Henry a son.” Father said.

  I did not have a choice. Or did I? Marguerite of Navarre had told me it was a man’s world, not because it should be, but because women let them have it. Remembering her words to me, I spoke.

  “My lord king, even if you were to have me, who is to say you would keep me?” I asked Henry. “Not merely Mary, my poor sister, they say all your liaisons end quickly. And you wish me to bear you a son? This is wrong, sire, you have a wife already.”

  “Katharine of Aragon they are saying, Lady Anne, she is not my wife in truth. You know, do you not, Lady Anne, that the queen is my brother’s widow? As such, it is an unclean thing, as it says in Leviticus.”

  Henry pointed to a large bible on the table. I did not know if this was to trap me, for I believed the people should read the Bible. But it was in Latin, which I knew.

  “And if a man marries his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing, they shall remain childless.” I read aloud.

  “She speaks Latin.” Father said.

  “And French.” I said, curtsying. Henry smiled more.

  “You have an air about you, Mistress Anne. You are quite French, I can tell.” Henry said. “A French woman to replace my Spanish cow.”

  I gulped.

  “Let me speak plainly, Lady Anne. I am determined to divorce the queen. Scripture proves I must. But I must have a woman who will give me sons. The queen is old; her courses have stopped.” Henry said.

  “There is the Princess Mary.” I said. A bright, winsome child, she was adored by her father, until the previous year, when Henry Fitzroy had been declared the king’s heir and given a grander household than his half-sister. “And Henry Fitzroy.”

  “Indeed. The heirs each satisfy but half, daughter. Fitzroy is male but a bastard and the Princess legitimate but female.” Father said. “The king needs a son.”

  “There is no Salic Law in England.” I said, desperate for any way to avoid this man, this king.

  “Good god, woman!” Henry said angrily, clenching his fist and pounding the table. “You are as obdurate as the queen herself! Anne Boleyn, would you have me? If I were to divorce Katharine and make you Queen of England, would you marry me?”

  Father gasped, as did I. But the king’s face told me he would not go away without an answer —and certainly not without the one he wanted. But I would not give him that satisfaction.

  “Your wife I cannot be, for you have a wife already. Your mistress I will not be.” Was my retort.

  1529

  I stood outside the court of Black Friars. Three years had passed since Henry VIII had proposed marriage to me, promising to divorce Katharine of Aragon, the princess of Spain, for little Anne Boleyn. I was the most powerful woman in England, queen in all but name- and the most hated. I had nearly died of the Sweat the year before, and it was well known that Queen Katharine had publicly stated, upon hearing that I had been among those ill but not the ones who had died’ how much better for all of us if the scandal of Christendom had!” I had attended court at first respecting Queen Katharine, but after Henry’s proposal, I had begun to dislike her, then to hate her. Despite Katharine’s’ reputation as a saint, she made no secret of her hatred for me either, but she could do nothing. Today, she entered the Court at Black friars, where her case was to be heard. I tried to hide, but she noticed me and spoke to me. I did have to admit, she had dressed every inch a queen that day—a black gown opened over an ermine petticoat, her symbol, the pomegranate, being woven into the hem. I admired the gown, much as I disdained the wearer, but I had no time to admire her clothing any more than that.

  “Anne Boleyn. The whore of France and the disgrace of England.” She said to me. I curtsied. Though I was Henry’s paramour, I was still her subject.

  “God, bless you, Your Majesty.” I said, not daring to look her in the eye. “I remain your most humble and obedient subject…”

  “You lie.” Katharine of Aragon said. “You do not tell lies, you are a lie. I am the true queen of England, and I will remain as such. Do you truly think I will step aside for you, and allow my daughter’s place to be taken from her? You are a fool. You desire not only my husband, but my crown. You shall have neither! I would send you to a nunnery, but you are beyond redemption!”

  “Katharine, queen of England, come into the court!” came the voice of a cried.

  “You, see, Boleyn? He knows my title!” Katharine said triumphantly. “Never shall you wear my crown.”

  January 25th, 1533

  “Anne. We are to be married.” Henry said.

  “Have you obtained the divorce from Katharine?” I asked. We had married in Calais, two months prior, but the divorce was not legalized yet in England, nor was I yet called queen.

  “No, Anne, but I can wait no longer. We are to be married today, and you will soon be crowned queen.” Henry promised me. He has promised me this for years, but we can truly wait no longer. I must agree to his demands now, even without the dissolution of the marriage to Queen Katharine —or lose my chance to be queen.

  I awoke, abruptly returning to the present. I was not in the Court at Black friars, or home in Hever, or being tempted into marriage with Henry. I was his widow, and I awoke and went to my prie-dieu.

  “God, please have mercy on me for the part I played in Queen Katharine’s suffering.” I begged the Lord. “I also ask your forgiveness for my cruelty to little Lady Mary. I see now that my daughter, Elizabeth, is suffering for my sins in France, cast aside and forgotten while her husband enjoys Diane de Poitiers, as I did to Katharine of Aragon. Lord, please cleanse and forgive me of anything I have done to those women, though they be dead. And please forgive me for the part I played in the executions of Jane Seymour and Margaret Pole. They only did what they believed to be right.”

  As I prayed, I heard loud vibrations outside the Palace. I wondered what was occurring.

  “My queen!” came the voice of George, my brother. “London is under attack!”

  “London is under attack? But surely…” I said.

  “It is the damned Spaniards!” George said. “They have come with an invading armada. My sister, we have no time to lose.”

  George spoke the truth. I had surrendered my past to God, and I was now Queen of England. Edward was too young, he had never led an Army. Nor had I, I knew. But I would speak to the people.

  I rode out in armor, the same armor, ironically, worn by Katharine of Aragon at the Battle of Flodden. I would need to take the courage and bravery of my predecessor were England to prevail this day. Riding into the city under siege, I spoke with courage that I felt from within, despite the gravity of the situation.

  “My loving people, we have been persuaded by some, that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery; but I assu
re you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear; I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good will of my subjects. And therefore, I am come amongst you now, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live or die amongst you all; to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honor and my blood, even the dust. I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart of a king, and of a king of England, too; and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realms: to which, rather than any dishonor should grow by me, I myself will take up arms; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already, by your forwardness, that you have deserved rewards and crowns; and we do assure you, on the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you. In the mean my lieutenant general shall be in my stead, then whom never prince commanded a more noble and worthy subject; not doubting by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and by your valor in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over the enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people.”