by G Lawrence
Purkoy had been my friend. My simple, loyal friend, who had never asked for anything but to be with me. I stared at his body in horror.
It could not be. He was so alive, so vital. How could it be that my friend was so far from me?
Henry came to me. I think even he was surprised at the depth of my sorrow. Perhaps he had been expecting the rage to which I was so prone to escape, but I was weakened by grief. I leaned back into the arms of my husband and wept. There was blood on my hands. I curled my fingers about my palms so I could not see it.
Purkoy… dead? How could this be?
Henry held me until I had cried myself quiet. He sat on the floor with me, his fine clothes on the rushes as he comforted me.
“Henry?”
“Yes, beloved?”
“How did this happen?”
Henry brought me close. “There was an accident. Purkoy fell from an open window. We are some floors up. He was too small to survive such a fall.”
I pulled myself up. “But… my windows are never opened in winter.”
Henry reached out to stroke an idle piece of hair come loose from my hood. “Today they were,” he said. “I do not know what to tell you, my love. Two of your women came to me. Mary Shelton and Jane Seymour said Purkoy had been sniffing out of the window. The next minute they turned, and he had disappeared. They were afraid to tell you, so came to me. They are good girls, your women. They were mortified to think they would bring you pain.”
“But, Henry,” I said, an idea forming that was so monstrous I could hardly entertain it. “Purkoy hated the cold. He would have stayed on his cushion by the fire, especially if the window was open. He would not have gone near it.”
Henry shook his head. “Mistress Seymour said she thought he was looking for you.” He stopped as my eyes flooded with tears. “Come, Anne,” he said, stroking my face. “The dog was your loyal friend until his last breath. Even though he was no great hound, he died trying to ensure his mistress was well. You have this gift to inspire all men and beasts with the same wish, it seems.”
There was such a gentle note to his voice that I sank into his arms. But as I lay in Henry’s embrace that afternoon, there were suspicions and fears in my heart.
Purkoy’s death had been no accident. I had ordered those windows kept closed and Purkoy would have never abandoned his bed for the chill air of the window.
Was there someone, within my own household, who wanted to cause me grief? Someone who would have pushed my little friend from the window when I left, knowing what his loss would cost me? Had someone hated me so much that they were willing to take the life of an innocent, to bring me anguish?
Was there someone close to me, who, far from being my friend… was my bitter enemy?
In the days following Purkoy’s death, I was shaken. I was sure my dog had been murdered. I thought of all the times he had helped me; granted me love and affection when there was none to be had from Henry. I thought of all the times I had told my ladies that he was my only true friend, and as I thought of this, I became certain.
Someone had killed him in order to hurt me.
My temper became as fragile as my trust and my heart. Norfolk came to speak with me, wanting me to aid him in a plot to oust Cromwell from court. Norfolk had uncovered that Cromwell was slandering him, although much of what he had said was, in fact, true.
“As my blood-kin, Majesty, you are honour bound to aid me,” Norfolk said, leaning on his odious cane. Encrusted spittle sat hunkered at the edges of his mouth. I despised him.
“It is interesting, Your Grace, the times you choose to remember our bond and the times you do not.”
“I know not of what you speak, Majesty.”
“Hah!” I cried out, my temper snapping. “What of all the times you have supported the King’s bastard over my legitimate daughter? What of all your whispered conversations with Chapuys, Uncle? All your fine dinners with the Poles, the Courtenays and Nicholas Carewe? Do you think me ignorant or blind? You would use me as you use all women. But I will not be your tool, old man. And for my part, I would rather have one Cromwell than a thousand Howards! I would rather have one useful man than an army of incompetent dukes!”
As Norfolk quitted my chamber, I heard him speaking to Henry Percy, my old suitor, who was on a rare visit to court. “That woman is no Queen!” Norfolk shouted. “Queen Katherine was a true queen! Anne Boleyn is nothing but a grande putain!”
What Percy made of this, I knew not. My old suitor had been ill, and when I met him at court upon his arrival, I had been shocked by the spell of deathly winter that had fallen upon him. His marriage was unhappy, and he was in constant debt. Unlike George, Weston, or any other who incurred debt at court, Percy was not favoured enough to relieve his concerns. After hearing Norfolk, Percy took sides with the conservatives. His physician, his most intimate companion, told courtiers that his master was indignant at the treatment he had received from Henry’s government. Quite what this treatment was I never did discover, but I took Henry’s part. My husband rewarded useful men, and Percy was nothing of the sort. And my foes knew it. They did not welcome Percy into their ranks, so he drifted on their borders, like a wraith.
Norfolk’s bluster earned him a stern scolding from Cromwell, sent by Henry. But however satisfying it was to know Henry was protecting me from slander, it did not stop my uncle’s insult being repeated about court.
That night I stared into my mirror, counting the lines of worry fast-forming about my eyes. A great whore… that was what my uncle had said. That was what Henry’s people called me. Yet I had only taken one man to my bed; my husband.
“How easy it is to defame a woman by calling her a whore,” I said sadly to Cromwell the next morning. “The mere mention of the word calls her character, temperament, and virtue into question, expelling all good that might have been hers. There are few words for the same state when applied to men, for promiscuity is only a sin if women undertake it.”
“Majesty, your uncle is opposed to all women, that much is clear, especially if they have the spirit to stand against him. Do not take it to heart. All men know of your virtue.”
“If you want my help in reducing the influence of my uncle, it is yours.”
“I would appreciate your aid, my lady. The Duke is too concerned with his own plots, and not enough with the King’s wishes.” He gazed at me with compassion, but I could see he was excited. Norfolk’s influence with Henry was degrading by the day, and should he be plucked from court, there was much Cromwell might achieve without Norfolk hindering him.
I allowed Cromwell to comfort me, but a time would come when I would remember this conversation, and curse myself for having put such a useful notion into his head.
*
Perhaps because he understood my sorrow over Purkoy, Henry brought Elizabeth to court that Christmas. I welcomed my daughter as the earth greets the first sunrise of spring.
What joy is there to compare to the presence of one’s child in one’s arms? What more happiness than hearing laughter, so sweet and innocent, spill from the tiny mouth of one’s child? Elizabeth was the embodiment of innocence; that state that once I rested in, and had lost. But in her, it lived. I hoped she would never be forced to part with it.
I sang to her. I told her tales that my mother had told me. We sat together in the wild afternoons of winter, bundled up under a blanket on a seat in the long gallery with candles lit against the falling light. As the wind screamed and the rain lashed the palace walls, I sang to my daughter of chivalry and love. We played with her rattles and dolls. Together, we whiled away hours, as my rich voice sang softly in the candlelit gloom, until her pretty black eyes, so like mine, closed as she fell into slumber.
With her in my arms, I could forget much.
But if I could forget some things, there was much I could not. I needed to speak to Mary Shelton, and convince her to become Henry’s mistress. Yet how could I ask a girl to whore herself for me? How could I go against my s
oul and provide a woman for the empty space I longed to fill beside Henry?
I wrestled with my conscience, but as I held Elizabeth, I knew I had no choice. No matter how terrible, no matter how much it hurt, I had to do it. The parrot had to be removed. There was no other way, and if I could not hold my husband to me on the merit of my own charms, or on the strength of our love, I had to find other means.
Tension ran high during Christmas, not only in my heart but in court. The court was no more simply a place of song and dance. The talk was of reform, religion and rebellion. There was dissent everywhere, and everyone could feel it. It seeped through the walls, through every crack, blighting merriment with a stain of evil. Fears about France and Spain, the rise of Lady Mary in the world and the rejection of Elizabeth assailed me. But one thing troubled me more.
Henry shied from my bed. Without him, how could I produce this son who would make me safe? How could I protect my daughter?
Chapter Sixteen
Greenwich Palace
January 1535
“I want it taken to my sister,” I said quietly to the messenger. “But I do not want it known that I have sent her anything. I will require you to swear it, upon your honour.”
The man nodded and swore, taking up the case containing a golden cup and a purse of money. Publicly, I could not be reconciled to Mary, but my sense of isolation had deepened in the wake of Purkoy’s loss, and I wanted to make amends. Mary and Stafford had gone to Calais as Stafford had a post there.
Long, hard and often I had thought on my bitter, unjust words, especially in the aftermath of my uncle using the same slanders against me. I could only think ill of how I had treated my sister. How distance brings clarity to a disturbed mind! She had married for love. How could I disgrace that when I had done the same?
I had become my own father; abusing my sister just as he had in France. That thought, perhaps more than any other, shook me.
Some time later, I learned that Mary had received my presents with joy. She sent a message back, telling me she had recently borne a daughter, and named her Anne, for me.
Oh, the guilt that was mine then! My sweet sister had named her child after me, when I had brought her untold unhappiness. I could not bring her back to court, for Henry paled even to hear her name, but I sent a message saying we would keep in touch, with discretion, and Mary responded warmly.
She wrote to me of her life in Calais. She was happy, and even though they were poor, she and Stafford were a good match. He was kind, cared nothing about her past, and adored his tiny daughter. It brought some peace to my heart to know this. I hoped one day to see her in person, perhaps when we finally went to France, if the postponed meeting ever took place. There I would explain my reasons… the darkness of my jealousy and the malice born of my terrors.
I was not the only one giving presents that New Year’s. Although it was the traditional time for nobles to exchange gifts, one in particular raised eyebrows. Lord Darcy, one of Katherine’s silent supporters, presented a sword and a golden brooch, bearing a forget-me-not flower upon it, to Chapuys. Since this coincided with Henry and the hare speaking about the fleet the Emperor had assembled to battle the infidels in Tunis, and what the Emperor’s intentions towards England were, I had no doubt Lord Darcy’s gifts were a signal to the Emperor that he was his supporter.
The hapless hare was also dining with Norfolk and William FitzWilliam on a regular basis. The old rift between Chapuys and Norfolk seemed to have healed, and the three were together often, sometimes with Gardiner and his little shadow Wriotheseley in tow. Perhaps it was good the hare had friends at court, for Henry was rapidly turning against the ambassador, although he could not show it openly.
“I am certain the Emperor is considering invasion,” Henry said one night as we dined.
“You do not believe he is only against the infidels?” I asked, spooning chicken broth onto Henry’s plate.
“That is what he would like us to think.”
Sometimes Henry seemed as paranoid as his late father, but I did not dare bring up the comparison. “And Chapuys denies this, of course?”
“Of course, but he cannot fool me. I will have our coastal fortifications bolstered. No foreigner will land on English soil carrying designs on my land.”
Henry was doubly suspicious of the Emperor as Charles had recently sent arms and soldiers to aid the Earl of Kildare, an Irish lord and Henry’s sworn enemy. Henry thought that the Emperor might try to sneak men in through England’s back gate. Chapuys protested that the Earl and his men were protecting Spanish fishing rights in the Irish Sea, and that was why men had been offered. This led to a mistrustful Henry lecturing Chapuys on his new coastal defences, and ships, boasting that the Emperor had nothing, nothing, to the fleet England possessed.
Chapuys could only answer that his master was not thinking of invading, but added he would never recognise me as Queen. Cromwell told him there was hope that the new Pope would honour our union, and declare my daughter legitimate. To such a notion, Chapuys simply smiled.
As Henry’s focus was fixated on Spain and the Emperor, mine turned to Lady Mary. In truth we were looking at the same problem from alternate angles. If the Emperor invaded, Mary would be set upon the throne, mayhap with a Spanish husband to keep her Imperial cousin sweet. And the French were supporting her too, endangering Elizabeth. With Henry’s zealous belief that England would soon come under attack colouring my thoughts, I sent a deluge of missives to Eltham, warning my aunts and Lady Bryan that Mary was to be kept under stricter watch than ever before, as there were rumours she might be stolen out of the country, or her cousin might attack on her behalf.
My aunts did not welcome my commands. Mary was already under strict watch, they informed me, and to tighten her restraints still further would engender ill-feeling from the common people, who adored her.
But I would not relent. Paranoia is a dangerous creature. It is not one being, but many. It is a host of rats stowed upon a ship. In the darkness of the murky holds they breed, and sight of one means many more lurk nearby. Such a beast is paranoia. It multiplies and grows, becoming stronger as it sups on terror. The stringent measures I had my aunts take caused Mary’s health to collapse. She became mistrustful, jumping at every word, and in her fragile state, her old troubles returned.
Once more Doctor Butts was sent, and Katherine pleaded to nurse her daughter. Chapuys was dispatched to Henry to read him a letter Katherine had sent, begging to be granted access to Mary. Henry refused. He feared Katherine might be seeking means to escape England, and would take Mary with her. When Chapuys made a counter-offer, that Mary should be reunited with the Countess of Salisbury, her old governess, Henry declared the Countess was an incompetent fool.
Henry received all messages on Mary’s health with a mixture of worry and suspicion, not knowing if this illness was a trick to dupe him into doing something foolish that would allow Katherine and their daughter to fly from his clutches. In the end, it was said Mary would be permitted to move closer to Katherine, but not to see her. If anyone understood what sense this made, I did not, but it seemed to calm mother and daughter.
Finally convinced that his daughter was telling the truth, Henry also learned of the measures I had taken. Forgetting that he, too, had feared she might flee, he came to me in a grand temper, berating me for my interference.
“It is none of your business!” he roared.
I stared at him. He had not bothered sending my ladies away, or his gentlemen. I could almost hear those hateful words he had spoken last summer, saying that I should be grateful for the position he had granted me and would not do so again, about to emerge from his lips. I would not allow him to do that to me in front of the court. Not again.
I drew myself up. “You are as much indebted to me as ever man was to woman,” I said loudly, causing many courtiers to stop pretending they could hear nothing. They gaped with mouths open so wide they could have been used to collect butterflies.
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��I am the cause of your being cleansed from the sin in which you were once living,” I said boldly. “By marrying me, you have become the richest monarch that ever was in England, both in wealth and spirit. Without me you would never have had this. It is because of me that you have moved to reform your Church, my lord, to your great personal profit and that of your Kingdom. You owe me much.”
Henry stared at me, his cheeks burning. Everyone was gaping.
“I took measures against Lady Mary to protect both you and our daughter,” I announced. “It was feared your bastard might try to escape England and bring wicked war upon our people, so I ensured she was unable to. I have done my duty, my lord, as your wife, as your Queen, and as the mother of our daughter, the heir to England’s throne. Scold me not for taking care of my family. You are right when you say I owe you much, but you owe much to me also. That should never be forgotten.”
I stood, bold and beautiful, strong and fierce. From the corner of my eye, I could see Norris gazing at me with unbounded admiration. The faces of Weston, Heneage and Brereton were much the same. My ladies looked as though they might laugh. Only Henry seemed astonished.