by G Lawrence
“More never could stand another having the last word,” I said. “What are these works?”
“The one that has been sent out is called A Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation,” said Cromwell. “We have men searching for it, amongst More’s friends and kin, but copies are already circulating.”
“More will be kept under close guard, not allowed visitors or be permitted to attend Mass outside his quarters,” said Henry. “I want that done today, Cromwell.” Henry glowered at his servant.
Thomas when he likes you, Cromwell when he is angry, I thought. Was it not the same for me? I was Anne when he loved me, madam when he was enraged. It was Henry’s way of dividing us up, compartmentalising us, fitting us into slots where he could make sense of us. We were only ever one, and not the other. One day I would learn this to my peril.
“Of course, Majesty.”
Henry departed with Weston to play tennis, and I was left with Cromwell. As Weston departed, Cromwell’s eyes were on him. He did not like Weston. He thought him frivolous and annoying. The fact he was friends with Gardiner and Norfolk did not help either.
I glanced at him. “What is in this work?”
He frowned. “Much,” he said. “The book, Majesty, centres on the kingdom of Hungary, in a time between the invasions of Suleiman the Magnificent. It is a fictional dialogue, like many of More’s works. He never did have much imagination.”
“He does adore that format.”
“Indeed, Majesty. The subject is that comfort may only be found through God, and the dialogue itself is a narrative on worldly power, the transience of pleasure, and the redemptive power of Christ. It is as much a treatise on politics as it is on religion, and its conclusions on power are not entirely flattering.”
“I can understand, then, why the King is so enraged.”
“He is also angered because in passing an eye over it, he saw it was one of More’s best works.”
Given the body of More’s accomplishments, this was quite a statement.
“There is something else, madam. Something the King would not want me to tell you.”
“Something against me, then?”
“Something against you.”
“Which was?”
“More’s daughter went to him on one of the permitted visits,” said Cromwell. “Apparently, his family believe you are the sole reason he is in prison. My guards told me that she spoke bitterly of the entertainments in your chambers, telling him all you were concerned with was dancing and sporting with men.”
“Is that all?” I asked. “There are many who look down on a woman for having a little diversion. Women are allowed no enjoyment, apparently, but the same is not true of men. They are never censured, for only women fall.”
“More said he pitied the misery that would shortly be yours,” said Cromwell. “And that whilst your ‘dance’ might now spurn heads from necks like footballs, it would not be long before your head would dance a like dance.”
“Thomas More is a fool,” I said. “To say this within hearing of his guards? He threatens his Queen.”
“This is another reason the King is determined to reduce his privileges.”
“The King is most protective of me.”
“Because he loves you, madam.”
Thomas More rapidly found himself in less comfortable arrangements. Straw mats, provided weekly for the floors and walls of his chamber, were not ordered anew, he was prevented from hearing Mass in the Tower Chapel, and no visitors were allowed. Henry’s men stormed out to capture the works that had slipped out into London, and More’s houses were searched. One of the items found was a note More had written to himself, saying that it would be wrong to betray a secret entrusted to him. None knew what this secret was, but it made Henry infinitely more suspicious, and with France boring into my husband’s personal sense of security, this was not a good time to rile the King.
As well as his Dialogue of Comfort, another work appeared. De Tristitia Christi, On the Sadness of Christ, was, as it transpired, More’s last work. His books were filled with venom against heretics. More compared them to Judas. Heretics claimed love for Christ whilst betraying him, More wrote. They could repent and come back to God, but whilst they remained lost in sin, “the air longs to blow noxious vapours against the wicked man. The sea longs to overwhelm them in its waves, the mountains to fall upon them, the valleys to rise up to him, the earth to split open beneath him, Hell to swallow him up after his headlong fall, the demons to plunge him into gulfs of everlasting flame…” The lists of heavenly punishments went on and on. At times, Thomas More could be an insufferable, long-winded author.
I could only shake my head that this man who professed such faith and devotion to God failed to see that reform was not wickedness. Wickedness was allowing the Church to continue in such an ungodly way, robbing from the poor and coveting the wealth of kings. And those who questioned the Church were not like Judas. If anything, they emulated Christ, for he had dared to question the religion of his forefathers, and had transformed it. If anyone was betraying Christ, it was people like Thomas More, bound in servitude to blind, mistaken faith, and never acting for God.
But we did not know that more had been snuck from the Tower than just More’s work. If More was to die, as seemed increasingly likely, he would not allow his greatest enemy to survive.
There was a plot against Tyndale, of which we knew nothing until it was too late.
Chapter Fourteen
Greenwich Palace
December 1534
At the start of December, as bright-breasted robins hopped on the first falls of snow and jaunty blackbirds rummaged in drifts for worms, we held a feast and a dance for Brion… who I was starting to hate more than any man alive.
I processed to the head of the hall with Henry, my black eyes snapping as we passed row upon row of bowing courtiers. I was in cloth of gold and purple, the royal colours blazing from my skirts, catching the light of the candles. Henry was dressed in the same colours, so we might show unity.
I was uncomfortable in my gown. Although I had lost much of the weight that had accompanied my lost pregnancy, I was still wider about the middle than I would have liked. My ladies said I was as thin as I had always been, but I did not feel so. Cloth of gold and purple were also not colours that suited me. I had selected them for their royal symbolism, as clearly the ambassador needed reminding who was Queen, but I looked better in fresh colours; greens, reds, silver and white. Purple and gold clashed against my olive skin and raven hair, making me look gaudy and overdone. But at times people needed to remember I was no more a mere lady of court. Sometimes it felt as though I was constantly reminding people of this.
Whilst I live, chuckled Katherine. They will never see you as Queen.
I ignored my personal phantom and went on with the night. The air was cold, bitter as chastisement, but black sea coal burnt bright in the glowing hearths. Diamonds shone on my cloak, glinting in the flicking light. My sleeves were long and hanging, lined with soft ermine and silver fox fur. Furs nuzzled my neck too, and their softness brought comfort as I watched the night’s entertainment unfold.
Mummers performed as we feasted on carp and whiting. Trout cooked with herbs and presented as though alive, were set beside pink salmon and bream. Broiled herring with pepper and vinegar steamed on the tables, alongside succulent haddock in green sauce. Sallats of fresh green herbs, glistening with oil, sugar and vinegar were laced with strips of white and purple carrots, young oak leaves, Alexander buds, whelks and capers. Seethed shrimps, cooked in ale, salt and savoury, were piled in little mountains upon green-glazed platters. Boiled cockles in ale, pepper and vinegar were served bobbing in broth. Piles of clinking muscles, dripping with butter and garlic, and dressed with parsley, were prised open by eager diners. Crabmeat dressed in red wine, ginger and cinnamon, was served re-stuffed in their shells. Whole lobsters, oyster chewets, sturgeon in vinegar and white fish fricassee were brought out to great cheers. Pike in mus
tard, marjoram, thyme, parsley, rosemary, ginger and cinnamon was presented roasted whole to the King. There was carp and bream, trout pate pies, baked seal and roasted whale meat. There were herring, mullet, plaice and lamprey, trout, pike and eels. Fried beans with butter and garlic stood beside purple-black laver bread and sallats of lemon, egg and herbs. Tarts of cheese, fish, spinach and eggs shone golden-brown on the tables, and peas royal, baked artichokes, buttered worts on diced bread, and spinach ball fritters with dates and currants, filled the bellies of the gathered masses.
We finished with soft cheese on crisp wafers, oranges in rosewater syrup, peach pies and tarts of lemon and candied orange peel, laced with pretty, purple borage flowers. Possets of sugar, cinnamon, ale and sack shimmered before us like gemstones.
As the feast ended, I felt dizzy. I had drunk deep of Henry’s fine wines, attempting to honour the ambassador and conceal my revulsion for him. Brion had condescended to raise a glass to me during the meal, but he did so with a sour cast upon his face. Henry appeared oblivious to Brion’s downturned lips and furrowed brow, but I was not. What could I have ever done to so offend him, or his master? Had I not always been a friend to France? Had François not counselled me himself on the importance of queenship and love?
But then, I thought as I lifted my almost empty goblet, François also counselled me there would come times when politics would force him to act against me. Was this one of those times? Should I see the rudeness of his ambassador and his horrific negotiations as but temporary measures?
I knew not, but the more I drank the darker my thoughts became. Wine has a habit of stripping away the surface of sorrow, for a while, only to plunge the drinker into a deeper realm later. It is strange we forget this so easily.
“My love,” Henry murmured. “I will fetch Brion’s secretary, Gontier, for you. The Admiral may have no love for England, but I think his servant will prove more malleable.”
I inclined my head. Although France was no England, it was just as possible for seemingly insignificant men to rise from the lower ranks and become useful later on, much like Cromwell.
Henry got up, leaving the ambassador and me to talk stiltedly. I watched my husband as he moved through the crowds, stopping now and then to talk to a favourite, or a friend. He drew people to him. Henry was a magnetic force, luring people with unseen charm.
As I watched, I saw him drift towards a most beautiful girl; a young wife of one of the French lords. It was as though he could not help it, as though he was caught in a spell. Her skin was white as milk and her hair golden as ripe corn. She looked at him with appealing, wide-eyed surprise as he held her arm to stop her from curtseying. I saw the familiar look of desire glinting in those blue eyes. That look that had once been mine alone.
I felt as though my heart would break and tears sprang into my glorious eyes. And then, without warning, I laughed out loud.
At times, sorrow springs from the body in ways that make no sense. Once my brother had told me when I was of two minds, I should always follow the trail of laughter rather than tears. It seemed my body, unable to express its heartbreak, had heeded George.
Brion, who had been talking, stopped short and stared at me in indignation. It was not as though he liked my company in any case, and now I was laughing in his face. “My lady,” he said coldly. “Do you mock me?”
Suddenly the affronted expression on his ignorant, proud face was all the joy I was to have in the world. I laughed hard and heartily.
My father, standing not far away, stared as though I had lost my senses. People were turning. There was a febrile, unnerving edge to my laughter. I sounded like some unearthly being.
I touched the ambassador’s arm. “No, no, dear Admiral,” I said gaily in French. “I laugh because the King had gone to bring your secretary to introduce to me, but instead has met a most beautiful lady who has made him forget all other pursuits. Such is the way with the King!”
Tears jumped out of my eyes and I giggled again. I sounded hysterical. Perhaps that was just what I was. Henry should have honoured me, or at least had the courtesy to save his lust for private moments rather than flaunting it before court. But he could not help himself. I was laughing as much at myself, at my foolish notions of love and devotion, that once I had believed in without question, as I was at the ambassador’s shocked face.
Brion was puzzled. Obviously, he could see nothing amusing in the situation. I took another pull on my wine. My laughter died.
Brion went back to his dull tale. I listened not, but nodded where I was supposed to until the time when I could call my ladies to me, thank the ambassador for regaling me with his so interesting tales, and leave with my head held high. However bold my appearance, my feet were unsure, trying to walk as my head swam with wine. Desperately, I held back the tears until I was alone.
Henry was still deep in conversation with the pretty little maid. He did not notice I had gone.
What is harder than to have known love once, and to have that taken away? I thought. What is worse than continuing to love someone who once loved you?
That night I wrapped my arms around little Purkoy and cried deep and hard into his soft fur. The lovely creature whimpered at my distress, nuzzling me with affection until I slept. In the morning, Purkoy was still there, watching over me. Sometimes it felt as though he was the only one who was on my side.
The French left the talks promising they would relay our proposal of marriage between my daughter and the house of France to their master. But before leaving, Brion took the time to dine with Chapuys.
Although Henry insisted that negotiations would continue, and we would win, I was not so sure. The French had shown where their preference lay. It was not with me.
Sometimes, in those dark and wearisome days, if felt as though everyone I had ever loved was destined to betray me.
As Brion left, our parting was as cool as the winter mists.
*
Later that month, as we began to prepare for Christmas and the first snows started to arrive, George had a blistering argument with our cousin, Francis Bryan. The fight began, I suspect, from jealousy.
George was highly favoured by Henry, and Bryan, like any courtier looking for elevation, was likely to resent this, but I had the feeling the argument was an indication of something more. Since the French delegation left, Henry had been cool with George. Perhaps he blamed him. George was our ambassador, and so we should have known, from the start, that they were intending on asking for Mary’s hand. But my brother had had no idea this odious match would be proposed. It seemed to me, therefore, that Bryan had picked a fight with my brother on purpose in an attempt to distance himself from Henry’s ire.
George and Bryan fought in public, at court, and were both scolded by Henry afterwards for disturbing the peace. They were told to shake hands and put their squabble behind them. They did so, but they would never truly be friends again.
And my sweet brother soon found his way back into Henry’s heart, so Bryan’s stance against him was foolish. Henry adored George. My brother was charming, learned and gallant. He was witty and clever, cutting at times, and far too proud, but he was charismatic and engaging. It was hard to stay angry with him. As Henry’s anger departed, he informed my brother that he would lead the negotiations about Elizabeth’s marriage. Bryan went about with a face like a dog left out in the rain.
But I wanted answers. I wanted to know why I had been betrayed. I wrote to du Bellay. My old friend was more forthcoming than I had expected, and informed me his master was worried that English merchants who supported Chapuys and Katherine would surrender to Charles if an invasion occurred. François reasoned that should the Emperor actually decide to invade England, it would be better to have been seen on Mary’s side, rather than ours. This explained much, but I was still unhappy. France had insulted me and threatened Elizabeth. I could no more be a friend to them… yet without France’s support, where could I or England turn? Not to Spain… not to Rome… Katherine
had brought political value in her marriage. What had I brought to England? I had no foreign connections… and those I thought I did have, were no more. The only possibility left, I reasoned, was the Schmalkalden League of Hesse and Saxony. But they were not as powerful as France and Spain.
Henry set out to make friends with the Lubeckian and Hamburg merchants, part of the Hanseaic League. They sailed up the Thames, responding to his invitation to dine at the palace, their banners streaming in the breeze. With the looming threat that Imperial ports might close against us, England needed these merchants to continue trading. Many were Lutherans, and whilst Henry despised Luther, he enjoyed the heaping of praise they lavished on him when they met that day at the palace.
If France, Spain and trade were not enough to worry about, I had more concerns. Henry barely visited my bed, preferring to spend time with the parrot. The talk about court was that he was in love with her, and this unnerved me. An enemy in Henry’s bed was dangerous, but what if he should decide he was really in love with her? She was married, that was true, but I had failed to give him a son, twice, and with his infrequent trips to my bed, was not likely to succeed.