The Last Wífe of Henry VIII

by Carolly Erickson

  “Why is Mistress Boleyn like a whale?” he asked a group of us one night after supper. “Because her belly is bigger than her tail—and that’s no fluke.”

  “What rises like dough, shakes like jelly and holds the next king of England? Mistress Boleyn’s belly!”

  On it went, jest after silly jest, each one repeated again and again as it made the rounds of the court. No one seemed to give a thought to poor Queen Catherine, far away in her neglected manor in the country, or to Princess Mary, who was also being kept away. Remembering them, I could not help thinking of my mother, who had loved the queen, and missing her terribly. It didn’t seem possible that the vibrant life of the royal palace could go on without her.

  I said as much to Will when we were alone.

  “Of course, if mother were alive, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be with Queen Catherine.”

  “Perhaps. But then, she was always very practical.”

  “If she were here I could ask her advice. John Neville has asked me to marry him.”

  Will laughed. “That old bumbler?”

  “He is an old bumbler. But he’s endearing.”

  “And important. His lands stand athwart the main roads into the North. He holds that region for the king.”

  Will looked thoughtful. “Of course he’s much too old for you. But not as old as Old Burgh. And you nearly married him.”

  “I did not.”

  “I think if mother were here, she would say, ‘You must be practical, dear. You must use your common sense.’ ”

  “And what would common sense tell me, now that Mistress Boleyn and all her Howard relatives are so much in favor? Half of Henry Fitzroy’s servants have deserted him, and are looking for posts in Mistress Boleyn’s household.”

  “Very wise too.”

  Will looked at me. “I was offered a position myself, but I didn’t choose to take it. I’m a rich man, thanks to my wife, and the intrigues of the court are not for me. I just make fun of them. You, on the other hand—”

  He did not finish his sentence but I knew what he meant. I was young, I had an appetite for life. I had known sorrow but might still find joy.

  “I am expected to serve Mary Howard when she marries Henry Fitzroy.”

  “A dismal prospect, I’d say. Poor Fitzroy will probably end up guarding some remote castle somewhere, an obscure nobody, while Mistress Boleyn’s son becomes heir to the throne. Mary Howard will pine away in her husband’s obscurity, and you will pine away with her.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”

  “All right. Nothing but cheer from now on.” Will assumed the puckish face he wore when telling jokes.

  “Why is Mistress Boleyn like a boil on the butt?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Because both swell up and both are a pain in the ass.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter at his own joke, and went away to tell it somewhere else.

  One Sunday after mass Avice and I were coming out of the royal chapel, following Henry Fitzroy and his betrothed as they walked along a colonnade toward the tiltyard. (She would not take his hand as they walked, I noticed, clearly she disliked him.) We heard Mistress Boleyn’s shrill voice behind us and moved aside to let her pass. She wore a loose-fitting gown with a white lace apron over it, garments which emphasized rather than disguised her pregnancy. I thought it brazen of her to flaunt her condition, and said so to Avice, who looked frightened, pretended not to hear me and dropped back amid the crowd exiting the chapel.

  “What’s that you said?” Mistress Boleyn asked, turning as she passed to look at me, imperious and challenging. Beside her stood Sir Thomas, my vengeful father-in-law, who when he saw me, said to his companion, “Pay no attention. She’s a mean, spiteful wench.”

  “She’s the one with the limp. The one who defied me at the Christmas revels at Sheriff Hutton last winter. The one who bested me at hazard. I’ll have her sent to Guernsey or somewhere. She’ll never be heard from again. The king will see to it.”

  I was worried—until, a few days later, I was summoned into the presence of the king.

  Servants were dressing him, as he stood, in his silken hose and smallclothes, arms outstretched, in the center of the room. I watched as each luxurious garment was removed from a trunk, then handed reverently to a second servant and then a third, who fastened it onto the royal person.

  All the while, the room was filled with the sound of Master Cromwell’s loud, insistent voice, reading to King Henry from a document he held. When I was ushered in through the massive oak doors Master Cromwell glanced at me briefly, his small porcine eyes dispassionte but observant, then went on with what he was reading. As he read, he paced agitatedly up and down, the folds of his long black gown entwining around his short legs. I thought him an uncommonly unattractive man, though a highly intelligent one. I knew that following the death of Cardinal Wolsey Master Cromwell had become the king’s principal secretary, the most powerful commoner at court.

  “All causes testamentary, all matrimonial cases shall be heard within the king’s realm and not elsewhere,” he read. “The See of Rome is to have no jurisdiction whatsoever over English cases or disputes.”

  “Ha! I like that. No jurisdiction whatsoever! Take that, Poop Clement—I mean Pope Clement. More like Pope Inclement. The Rainy Pope. Well then, let him thunder and rain all he likes, he’ll have no more power over me!”

  While the king spoke he waved his arms and stamped his foot for emphasis. His dressers, nonplussed, stopped what they were doing and waited until he had calmed himself before resuming his toilette.

  “The wording of this act must be precise. We’ve already revised it seven or eight times. I’ve had it read by a dozen clerics and lawyers. Of course there’s no precedent for any law like this. No one has ever tried to limit the legal rights of the pope before.”

  “Except by assassination,” Henry put in. “That is very effective.”

  I saw Master Cromwell give the king a disparaging look.

  “All we seek to do, in this instance, is to prevent Queen Catherine from appealing her case to the pope in Rome when you legally divorce her by act of Parliament. There is no need for violence or lawbreaking.”

  “And what does a pisspot clerk like you know of the business of kings? If I want Poop Clement killed, I’ll order it done.” He paused and stroked his red-gold beard. As he did so, he appeared to notice me for the first time. “The only trouble is,” he went on, “there would be some other poop elected, and he’d say the same thing—that I can’t divorce my wife.”

  Master Cromwell took his document to a desk, picked up a quill, and scratched out some words, adding others. The king continued to look at me, a half-smile on his face.

  “Sometimes, Crum, I think the Mahommedans have the right idea. Four wives at a time. Four women in each man’s bed. That would be about right, eh? What do you say?”

  “They’d fight.”

  “Yes, I fear they would. And while a cat fight can be diverting, it isn’t very erotic, would you say?”

  Cromwell permitted a grin to cross his piggy face.

  “I’ll hear the rest of your act later, Crum. Leave me.”

  “But your majesty, the lawyers are waiting for your permission to proceed. We must draft this as rapidly as possible.”

  The king reached for the nearest solid object, which happened to be a silver bowl full of water for shaving, and flung it at Cromwell’s head. He missed, but clipped the secretary’s ear. Cromwell gave a startled cry.

  “I said, leave me.”

  Holding a handkerchief to his ear, Cromwell quickly gathered up his papers and left. The king’s dressers were fastening his doublet and attaching a cream-colored feather to his scarlet cap.

  “Now, Milady Burgh, what’s this I hear of some quarrel between you and my future queen? She tells me she wants you sent to Guernsey, of all places. Whatever have you done to offend her?”

  “I know of no offense given,
sire. Not on my part.”

  “Then on hers?”

  “Surely the king’s favorite can do no wrong, sire.”

  “I dislike evasive answers.”

  “Then perhaps you would prefer silence.”

  The king waited, but I said no more.

  “We need your brother Will here. He always makes me laugh. Have you heard his latest joke? Why is Mistress Boleyn like a boil on the butt?”

  “Yes, sire. I’ve heard that one.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well then. I can’t very well send you to Guernsey, to disappear forever on that lonely shore, but I can attempt to mend your quarrel. My future queen is to be elevated to the peerage soon, as Marchioness of Pembroke. You will attend her at that ceremony. Try to be agreeable.”

  While we were conversing Charles Brandon had come in, and the king now turned his attention to him, dismissing me before I had a chance to object to taking part in Mistress Boleyn’s ceremony. With many misgivings, I curtseyed and left.

  On the day Mistress Boleyn was to become a marchioness, the two countesses who were appointed to help her dress had difficulty with their task. The crimson velvet surcoat she was to wear was too small. Dressmakers rushed in to open a seam and stitch in a placket, working amid a storm of abuse from the marchioness-to-be. Lady Mary Howard, Henry Fitzroy’s fiancée, stood by holding Mistress Boleyn’s velvet mantle and trying not to burst into tears during her cousin’s tirade. I held a satin pillow on which rested the jeweled coronet the new marchioness would wear. I had nothing else to do, and so I stood quietly, looking at the carvings on the wall, the firedogs in the hearth, the pigeons fluttering outside the windows. Anywhere but into the eyes of the irate woman who expected to become the king’s wife.

  For a tense half-hour, while the surcoat was altered, she waited—and waited. Presently the Duke of Norfolk burst into the robing chamber.

  “By all that’s holy, what’s keeping you, madame?” he fairly shouted at his niece, who glared at him.

  “As you see, it’s these hamfisted whores of dressmakers. They aren’t finished with my gown.”

  “Madame has—has—put on weight—” one of the countesses began, hesitantly. “The surcoat has had to be enlarged.”

  Anne turned on the trembling countess and shouted in her face. “Nonsense! I’ve had two fittings on that gown.”

  “Several months ago,” murmured one of the dressmakers. Suppressed laughter followed this remark. The duke slammed his fist against the wall and the laughter ceased. I was so startled I jumped.

  “Come at once to the throne room,” the duke said, his voice soft yet menacing, a snarl behind every word. “At once.”

  Mistress Boleyn’s face had gone white. In that moment I saw stark fear in her eyes, and I realized that what the more astute observers at court said was true: that she was in fact nothing more nor less than the tool of her ruthless, ambitious family, and especially of her fearsome craggy-faced uncle Norfolk. Her hauteur, her rude and imperious manner were only a disguise, to hide her fear from others and deny it to herself.

  I saw that she was trembling, her knees shaking. Everyone stood as if frozen. The duke had left the room. The dressmakers cowered.

  Handing the coronet I was holding on its satin pillow to one of Mistress Boleyn’s attendants I quickly helped her into her surcoat, which was not fully sewn together but covered her adequately and modestly. Her long black hair spilled down the back of the simple garment, making her look girlish and vulnerable. For the first time I felt empathetic toward her. I led her to the door and the others fell into place behind us. She said nothing, but let me guide her, her trembling gradually lessening, along the corridor to where the officers of arms were waiting to escort her into the throne room.

  The great doors opened and I could see, from where I stood, the king in his glittering golden robes, seated on his throne, the Duke of Norfolk on one side of him and Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, on the other. Flanking them were officials and noblemen wearing thick gold chains of office and twinkling gems that dazzled the eye. Toward this formidable phalanx walked Mistress Boleyn in her simple robe and unadorned hair.

  A lamb to the slaughter, I thought as I watched her. No matter how she puts on airs and tries to force others to do her bidding, no matter how domineering she tries to be, Mistress Boleyn is just a sacrificial lamb.

  I too felt a bit like a sacrificial lamb when I learned, a few days later, that I would not be returning to Sheriff Hutton with Henry Fitzroy and his household.

  It was Daniel who brought me the news.

  “I’ve just heard,” he told me. “The royal controller has cut the Duke of Richmond’s household budget. He will be moved into smaller lodgings, with a much smaller staff to serve him. You are among those whose position is being eliminated, milady.”

  I sat down, too surprised, for the moment, to reply.

  “It was only to be expected, after all. Mistress Boleyn’s child will be born before long, and Henry Fitzroy’s name won’t even be mentioned any more. When she has two sons the new succession will be certain. Young Fitzroy will probably be a scullion in the royal kitchens—if he’s lucky.

  “So that’s why everyone has been trying to join Mistress Boleyn’s household. It wasn’t only that they wanted to serve a more important person. It was because they sensed that their old place would soon be eliminated.”

  I reproached myself for not having foreseen this turn of events. I had never been very astute in forecasting the shifting tides of the court. I was slow to realize that poor Henry Fitzroy, who had been the king’s cherished hope and favorite ever since his birth, and whose betrothal had even now been celebrated with such pomp, would fall so far out of favor that most of his servants would be dismissed.

  But where did this leave me? I was once again adrift, without a home of my own, without an income except for what Will gave me, without a future. I was still very young, and when I looked at myself in the glass I saw—when I was not too critical—a pretty young woman with creamy skin and auburn hair and a lively smile. I knew that my figure was very good and that my slight limp would not be considered a major flaw in my physical attractions.

  I thought with a chill of the place I had heard about, the place they called the Maiden’s Chamber at Shooter’s Hill in Greenwich. It was the king’s private brothel, an old lodge tucked away within the thick greenery of the wood, where a group of young women waited to serve the royal pleasure. Were it not for Will’s generosity, would I have been forced to join the ranks of these unfortunate women?

  But no—my uncle William would never have allowed that to happen. Much as he resented me, he would never have allowed me to disgrace the Parr family name by serving in the Maiden’s Chamber.

  There was no other choice. I would have to live with Will. Perhaps it would only be temporary. I hoped so.

  Yet as my servants were packing my things I heard a brisk knock at my bedchamber door. It was Sir Thomas.

  “I cannot pretend, madame, that I am pleased to see you,” said my former father-in-law when he had been shown in. “I am here strictly in my capacity as chamberlain to the Marchioness of Pembroke. I have just been appointed to that office.”

  The Marchioness of Pembroke, I thought. The name by which we must now call Mistress Boleyn.

  “I can hardly pretend to be pleased to see you, either. The last time you came to my bedchamber it was to lock me in.”

  “You appear to be none the worse for the experience.” His tone was cold and contemptuous. I thought, how I wish I never had to see him again.

  “It is the marchioness’s wish that you join her household, as lady-in-waiting. I need hardly tell you that very soon the marchioness will be queen.”

  “I am honored but must decline,” I heard myself say.

  “I cannot take that message back to the marchioness.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one has ever refused an appointment to her household before. She would not countenanc
e it.”

  “Nevertheless it must be my answer.”

  He did not know what to say or do. He no longer had any power over me, to shout at me or lock me in my bedchamber. It was a small victory, to be sure, yet I felt like gloating.

  “I must consult the king.”

  I gulped. The king. Of course, he would have the final say as to who served his future queen—assuming she became his queen—as lady-in-waiting.

  “I remind you,” Sir Thomas was saying, “that an invitation to serve the Marchioness of Pembroke carries the force of a royal command. Unless, of course, some binding obligation makes such service impossible.”

  At his words a series of images flashed through my mind. Of little Margaret Neville’s upturned face, full of yearning. Of the level gaze and unsmiling eyes of handsome Johnny Neville in the tiltyard of Sheriff Hutton. Of kind John Neville lying in my bed, calling me Gwennidor and saying “All I have is yours, and my heart as well.”

  “But I am bound by an obligation,” I told Sir Thomas, suddenly happy that what I said was true. “I am betrothed, to Sir John Neville, Lord Latimer, and we are to be married within the month.”

  11

  MY MOTHER’S CARVED OAK BED WITH ITS CANOPY AND COUNTERPANE of purple velvet was brought to Snape Hall and moved into my elegant new bedchamber, the bedchamber I was to share with John Neville, Lord Latimer.

  I had been born in that bed, and so had Will and Nan. I hoped that the next generation of our family would be born in it as well.

  Not that I expected my marriage to John to be anything like my marriage to Ned. Ned was everything to me, the center of my life. I would never love anyone as I had loved him. But I was older now, I told myself, and I was ready for new responsibilities and a mature marriage with an older man. I was no longer a romantic child, I was a woman grown.

  Besides, I was genuinely fond of John, who had been kind to me and who evidently loved me, in his own way. When I told him that I would be glad to accept his proposal of marriage his homely face became radiant. He beamed, and laughed, and said he had never been so happy.