by Byrd, Sandra
Also, against my will, Jane had sown a seed of doubt in my heart about Anne’s loyalty toward me.
I recalled to mind one of King Solomon’s proverbs that Master Fulham had insisted that Anne, Rose Ogilvy, and I memorize as girls. These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto Him: a proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren.
’Twas Jane Rochford, clearer than any Holbein portrait could want to be.
In early July, I went to Anne’s chambers one morn to help her dress for an audience with the Venetian ambassador, but she was still in bed, her beautiful hair matted like a tangle of dark thread on the underside of a tapestry, her skin sickly and taut.
Jane Rochford, just returned from exile, was already there. “She has pains,” she announced in a voice tinted with triumph. “Mayhap I should send for her mother.”
I nodded. “Indeed.”
“And our sister, Mary Stafford?” she insisted.
“Be gone!” I hissed loudly enough for her to hear but not, I hoped, for Anne. Jane laughed quietly and went to find Lady Boleyn. After her banishment she no longer even pretended to false affection for Anne.
Mary Boleyn Carey had married a lowborn soldier from Calais named William Stafford a few months before and, because she hadn’t asked either Anne’s or the king’s permission, she had been exiled from court for months. I knew the real reason that Anne could not tolerate Mary’s presence, though, and it had nothing at all to do with her lowborn husband nor her maddening manner. Rather, it had everything to do with the fact that unlike Anne, Mary had both a daughter and a son by the king. Baseborn, but healthy and alive. Anne, superior in nearly every way to Mary, was inferior in this one critical matter.
“She’s not going to call Mary to court,” Anne said. “I shan’t allow it.”
“She has no intention of recalling Mary,” I said. “Now, just lie back and we shall pray together that these pains will subside and all will be well.”
Anne clutched my hand and eased back. She rolled on her side like a tiny rowboat listing on the Thames and I prayed aloud.
“Lord, if it be your pleasure, please spare this child, for his sake and for my lady’s sake and for His Grace’s sake. Please stop the pains and soothe her womb and have a care to assist the child within.” All knew the pains were too early; a child born now could not survive.
Lady Boleyn arrived and we sat on either side of Anne, and, for a time, she seemed comforted. I sent word by Anne’s secretary to tell the Venetian ambassador that the queen was unwell. By noon, the chamber had grown as quiet as the Kentish fields in the dead of a summer day. Anne rolled from her side and looked at me.
“’Tis no use. I bleed.” We called the midwife and Anne travailed to deliver the babe, present in body and yet in spirit already with our Lord. It was just possible to see that the child had been a boy. I folded him in a small linen and prayed over the body as the midwife took care of the queen.
“Was it a boy?” Anne asked.
I nodded. She remained quiet for many minutes and then, as we eased her into a clean dressing gown, she said, “Mayhap the God I thought I knew I know not at all.”
I had the bloodstained sheets burnt.
His Majesty did not visit. He sent word that he was overoccupied with Master Cromwell but would keep her in his prayers and hoped for a swift return to health. It sounded like the fond but disinterested sentiments one would send to a worthy courtier, not to a wife.
She sent him a sweet letter apologizing that her ill health inconvenienced him and finished it by saying, “I look forward to the day when we, together, celebrate the birth of our son. I shall hasten to recover in order to hasten that day.”
Her atypical gentle manner had won a reprieve. A day later the king visited my lady’s chamber, bringing dates, a bracelet of diamonds, and sweet kisses and gentle words which I had not heard from him in some time. They gladdened her heart and gave her hope. “I believe he repents of his lack of attention,” she said to me as she called for Lady Zouche to bring her washbasin. “Meg, please find a suitable gown for tomorrow night’s dinner. The king is eager for my attendance.”
While Anne had not been able to deliver to His Grace what he wanted, Master Cromwell had.
That autumn, in the king’s mighty presence chamber, Master Cromwell announced in front of all gathered courtiers, politicians, gentry, and visiting notables that Parliament had passed the Act of Succession, which made Mary a bastard and the male issue of Anne and Henry, followed by Princess Elizabeth, the only legal successors to the crown.
Though she’d not authored the act, it seemed that Anne had indeed triumphed over Mary’s unbridled Spanish blood.
Cromwell then read out the Act of Supremacy, also passed by Parliament. “Parliament herein reaffirms the king of England as the only supreme head on earth of the Church in England. The English crown shall enjoy all honors, dignities, preeminences, jurisdictions, privileges, authorities, immunities, profits, and commodities to the said dignity. This is a recognized and inalienable right.”
The room grew warm with the sweat and fast breathing of hundreds of anxious listeners. The traditionalists, lead by Nicolas Carewe, appeared unseated. Sir Thomas More quietly left the room: Henry saw him leave, yet still appeared pleased, under the canopy of state crowning his great throne. Anne looked pleased for him, and indeed, for the reformist cause. Parliament had firmly declared that the pope had no jurisdiction in England, in fact, never had.
Finally, Cromwell read the last parliamentary act, the Treasons Act. All knew that treason was the worst charge to be laid against man or maid, with the exception of excommunication, which was, thankfully, no longer a valid threat. Cromwell, splendidly attired in his mighty robes of black, power draped about him like legal ermine, called out in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
“This very act prohibits all who maliciously wish, will, or desire by words or writing, or by craft imagine, invent, practice, or attempt any bodily harm to be done or committed to the king’s most royal person…. or to deprive him of any of their dignity, title, or name of their royal estates, or slanderously and maliciously publish and pronounce, by express writing or words, that the king should be heretic, schismatic, tyrant, infidel, or usurper of the crown….”
Cromwell read on for another five minutes, but none save the king and Anne were listening any longer. What this meant was that all were legally prohibited from speaking against anything the king had done or might do. Parliament, or rather Cromwell, had just given Henry unbridled power, and nothing and no one could stop him.
Later, at a reform meeting in Lady Carlyle’s sumptuous apartments, there was a glow of happiness that the Church in England was now autonomous. I knew by furtive look and discomfortable manners that several realized that giving absolute power to anyone save God was dangerous, foolish, and shortsighted. None of us dared say anything, of course; there were spies all round and today’s speech made it plain what dissenters earned for their honesty.
’Twas troubling, though. Had the brilliant Cromwell not seen the Achilles heel he’d firmly embedded in his own document, believing it to advance England and reform but placing them both in bloody hands? Or had he drunk deeply of power’s nectar and could not now see soberly the effects this document might have?
I suspected it was the latter, and Cromwell had unwittingly placed a very large bundle of sticks on the smoldering embers of destruction.
TWENTY
Year of Our Lord 1535
Whitehall Palace
Templeman Castle
Greenwich Palace
In January of 1535 Henry saw to it that Cromwell was well rewarded for his loyalty as chief henchman. Cromwell was appointed vice-regent, vicar, and special commissary, which made him not only the highest civil authority in England, save for His Maj
esty, but also the highest religious authority in England, save for His Majesty.
Henry, of course, remained head of the Church of England. Though he sometimes listened intently as the truly godly and learned bishops Anne had angled into place spoke and exhorted, His Grace also spent chapel time reading over accounts and jotting poesies and notes in the permanent copy of Holy Writ placed in the royal box afore handing it over to Anne, who oft replied in the same manner. Out of compulsion or desire, I know not. But it vexed me some, I’ll admit. As for me, I flourished under the teaching of men who taught, in English, and plainly, from God’s word.
One afternoon in early spring Anne instructed me to get her riding outfit ready and then called for her chamberlain to have her horsemen prepare some steeds for riding. “I feel the need to ride out,” she said.
“Is it…. safe?” I asked her.
She nodded solemnly. “I began to bleed this morning.”
Ah. I, like all of her ladies who cared for her future, knew exactly when her flow should come and prayed that it would not. But it had. Another month with no promise of a son. I, always eager to ride, prepared her clothing and then went to change into my own riding habit. We had servants attend to us, of course, but they knew well enough to stay a comfortable distance behind us.
We galloped out and across the parkland next to the palace before cantering and then walking. “We’ve got better steeds, thanks to His Majesty, than we had as girls, don’t we?” I asked.
She grinned. “Yes, he can be a generous benefactor. He’s just arranged for several more horses of spirited blood to be delivered for me. He said he wants the steed to match his mare.”
Coming from another man, that sentiment may have been a denigration, but when it had been said, all knew that Henry was signaling to a faithless court ready to shift loyalties within a moon phase that Anne was queen, his wife, and still held his affections in her elegant hands. Seeing her now, her color high and her spirit restored by his renewed affection, it was not difficult to see why.
“You look well,” I said. “And I am pleased.”
“The air does you good, too, Meg,” Anne said. “You are lovelier than when we rode as girls. I see why Sir Thomas was so taken with you at the masque last week; indeed, I believe he first trained his charm on you at a picnic a year earlier.”
“Your memory astonishes me,” I said, laughing, but thankful for the compliment. Anne was aware of her own effect on men but never begrudged another woman beauty or attention. She was jealous only for the affection and attention of her husband; ’twas reasonable, for certes. “I suspect Seymour trains his charm on any who eschew hose for gowns.”
Anne smiled but then turned to the sound of an approaching rider. None should ride toward us unless there was trouble. “’Tis George,” she said a bit distractedly.
Her brother shortly arrived but did not dismount. He did bow his head. “Ladies,” he said before raising it again. “I wanted you to know afore you returned to your chambers,” he said. “This day, the king has begun to enforce the Treasons Act. I was in the privy council yesterday when it was announced. Today the sentences were carried out.”
Anne nodded but the high color drained from her cheeks.
“His Majesty had four Catholic monks of good repute hanged, drawn, and quartered, their entrails burned in front of them before beheading them for denying that he, not the pope, was the head of the Church in England. And then, to show that he is just, he had fourteen of the reformers who had fled here seeking sanctuary burnt at the stake for refuting infant baptism.”
This was the man my lifelong friend succored in the bosom of her heart.
The look on Anne’s face was somber and she remained quiet for some time before responding. “I cannot do anything to help them. I cannot cross His Majesty and even I have learnt when I can offer counsel and when I must hold my peace.” She looked toward the castle, the west wing, where Henry was constructing a massive addition. “What I may do is bring English Scripture into places that it has been forbidden and allow all to read. I can place firm beams, load-bearing beams, men of goodness and godliness, committed to reform, on the altars and in the chaplaincy and hope that they can stand. I cannot do more.”
She lightly dug her heels into her mount and rode back alone, George and I trailing her. By evening, when Henry expected her to entertain some guests from Francis’s court, she had recovered her gaiety and drew near to the king. What other could she do? She, a beam, had to bear up too.
Within the month, Anne had Matthew Parker, a reformer of calm and patient temperament and dedication to the Scriptures, and a friend of Will and John Rogers, appointed to an important position in Stoke-by-Claire. She also named him as her personal chaplain.
It seems our king had whetted his taste for living without consequence. In June, he had Cardinal Fisher, Katherine of Aragon’s champion, hung for a day before being beheaded; his head was placed on a pike just outside for all to see.
A few weeks hence Anne came to my rooms, dismissed Edithe, and sat on my bed, head in hands.
I joined her. “What is it?” Anne was not given to fits of sadness or displays of weakness.
“Henry has had Sir Thomas More condemned to death. He refused to affirm the king as head of the Church in England, holding to his belief that the pope is the rightful head of the Church everywhere. More is to be beheaded as well.”
“I’d heard,” I said. The news had blown through court like an ill wind. “But why does this sadden you, dearest? Sir Thomas was for certes no friend to you.”
She nodded and twisted her emerald wedding ring about her finger. “I admit I am not a generous enough person to grieve his death, though I do not believe he dies justly. However”—she looked at me and I saw, for the first time, fear in her eyes—“Henry loved Thomas More. He thought of him as a father, a brother, a counselor, a friend, of many decades. Does Cromwell not see that if Henry can change his affections, of an instant, for one well-beloved counselor he can do that for another in like manner?”
I took her hand in my own, soothing her without a word. Because the words we did not, could not, say were: if Henry set aside one wife, a well-beloved wife, in an instant, could he not do that of another in like manner? That was the heart of the matter. We both knew it.
Fisher’s head was taken from its pike, pitched into the Thames, and replaced with More’s.
England was as restless as an unwell child, and the king restless along with her. His answer was to take Anne, and the court, on a long progress throughout his own properties, the properties of his nobles, and even to the west country. We started at Windsor, moved to Reading, and then planned to go through Oxfordshire to Templeman Castle and Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire. We’d progress through Wiltshire, Southampton, then Portsmouth, followed by Winchester, feasting and bankrupting his hosts all the way. Henry wanted to see his people face-to-face, judge their loyalty, and affirm his sovereignty. We left as soon as More’s pulse stilled.
Endless hunting and dancing and dining kept the king at peace for months, happy, his heart and hand interlaced with Anne’s, which was, I supposed, best for all. Still, there was no sign of a child and she’d gone many months now without a pregnancy. So when she pulled me aside to speak in private I thought mayhap she had good news. But it was other news she wanted to share.
“The king has told me that we leave, on the morrow, for Templeman Castle,” she said. “The Earl of Blenheim has erected a great jousting stadium in honor of His Majesty, has arranged for a pageant and a masque. I expect the Ogilvy family will all attend.”
I nodded. “But Will is in Antwerp, with Miles Coverdale.”
“I wanted you to be forewarned,” Anne said. “And I want you to take one of the gowns you’ve just had made for me—that one of garnet sarcenet with gold shot throughout—and keep it for yourself. I shan’t have you showing up at Rose’s home looking any less fashionable than she.”
I squeezed her hand in silent thanks.
“I have not forgotten my promise to ask the king for a dowry for you,” she said. “I shall, next time I am with child. My brother, George, can find a good man for you, a noble knight or other kindly person in high gentry. Or mayhap you prefer Thomas Seymour?”
I laughed. We both knew Thomas Seymour was out of my grasp even if I wanted him, and I didn’t. “I have no wish to partner Master Seymour for anything other than the briefest of dances, Your Grace. But thank you.”
We arrived at Templeman, I in Anne’s litter, which meant that Rose would have to remain in a curtsy while I alighted because she knew not whether it would be me or Anne who would come out first. I hid a smile. I was not beyond enjoying the poke but I had no wish to cause further ill will.
“Lady Blenheim,” I said. Her father-in-law had passed away; her husband was now completely vested in his title, as was Rose.
“Dowager Baroness,” she said, emphasizing “dowager.” I minded it not. The years had not been kind to her and her self-righteous spirit had soured her within as well. Her eyes looked unwelcoming, as always, but also deeply smudged.
Once the court had settled in their rooms—new ones had been prepared for the king and for Anne, whom Rose continued to refer to as “my dear, dear childhood friend the queen”—the earl called us into his gardens, where he held an enchanting pageant. I looked about me. Where was Will’s father…. and brother? Neither were here when the king was being entertained? I set Edithe to make inquiries from the servants, so as not to draw attention to my queries, and was shocked at what she reported back.
“Seems Master Walter has passed on, my lady, only a few weeks ere the progress. His father and mother are putting things to right at their estate and ’tis too soon after the death to be at a masque an’ all.”