by G Lawrence
*
I turned a restless hand to charity that winter. Somehow, with Henry and me on better terms, I was made sadder by the notion that he had not given up my cousin.
I had thought that his betrayal and coldness were the worst things I could endure, but it was not so. Having him with me was wonderful, yet that sweetness was soured by his need for other women.
When Henry was entertaining my cousin, I spent time with my chaplains. Latimer, Shaxton and Skip were the three I admired the most. With them I discussed welfare for scholars and the poor.
“I want standing orders of money offered to those who come pleading for their families,” I instructed, “as well as prompt handling of petitioners. Too often cases are left hanging. We must do better, gentlemen. I know you all have much work, but this is where our dedication should be. The poor deserve our aid, and as they are granted it, you will instruct them in the faith.”
My ladies spent a considerable part of every day sewing for the poor. Pregnant women received blankets and sheets, and clothes were distributed in London and on progress. Money was also granted to poor widows, those who cared for orphans, and women with many children. Warm vestments, blankets and baby clothes were our most common tasks, but we made richer items for the palace, and hangings for the Royal Chapel. Whilst I understood more and more the reformers’ cry to strip churches bare of all frippery, leaving the honest soul alone to converse with the Almighty, I also liked to see the house of God decorated. God appreciates beauty. He had made much that was wondrous to behold.
I was also a generous patron of education. It was important to me that promising young men were supported through university, for if they had the right religious outlook, they would lead my daughter’s generation into the light of true faith. Doctor Butts found and recommended men for me to support, and my chaplains did likewise. Even those who might have been enemies came to me, knowing of my support for scholars. One was Thomas Winter, Wolsey’s bastard son. He returned from Padua when his money ran out, which threatened his education, and went to Cromwell, who sent him to me.
“I am well aware, my dear Winter,” I said. “That you are beloved of the King, and have many friends who wish you well. Reckon me amongst their number.”
In truth, Henry had been too busy shooting with his new crossbows to grant an audience to the son of his once most-beloved friend. Winter made Henry uncomfortable. He looked so like his father. Henry did not care to keep company with Wolsey’s ghost.
People were surprised that I granted Winter funds to continue his education. They presumed I would hate him, as I had his father. But I did not judge a person for their kin. Were that true, I would have despised Mary Howard for her father, or her mother. Winter was not accountable for Wolsey’s sins, and he was dedicated to the new learning and humanist ideals. In aiding men like him, I supported the future, and perhaps there was a part of me which understood he deserved help since I had been responsible for the fall of his father.
I also supported universities, setting up funds, and promoting them at court, and took a keen interest in appointing men to teach from the Bible, offering lessons to common people so they might understand their faith better. This service extended to the sons of leading courtiers, like Norris, whose heir studied at Syon Abbey with my ward and nephew, Henry Carey. Grammar schools were set up to teach the rudiments of language, maths, writing and reading to poor lads, the basics of reading to noble or merchants’ daughters, and free pupils, paid for from my purse, were maintained.
Although Cranmer, some years ago, had advised me to make my charity publicly known, I had not. I could not bring myself to publicise it. Charity is not charity if one seeks acclaim. It is just another purchase. Charity, when treated like that, is no godlier than a whoremaster procuring jades for his customers.
Some of my charity was, naturally, noted, such as public giving of alms and events such as the Maundy ceremonies. But all else I did, I would not shout about. Perhaps it was one area in which I outdid Katherine, for she had never made a secret of her work.
That is what a queen does, said her voice. Promotes herself to her people.
That is not what this Queen will do. If I have played the whoremaster once, I will not again.
From Kimbolton, Katherine insisted she would wash the feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday, and I sent a command that she would not. The ritual of cleansing and alms giving on Maundy Thursday was reserved for royalty, and I would not allow Katherine to undertake it. When her servants shared this news, there were grumblings against me. Some brought up an old prophecy about Henry, that he would begin his reign as a lamb and end as a lion, saying that restricting Katherine in this way was but one of the signs this would come true. Others made up ditties, singing them in the streets, mocking my attempts to play Queen, whilst England’s true Queen languished in the fens, unable to aid her people.
But if the majority of Henry’s people noted nothing good in me, some did. William Marshall, a writer and social reformer, dedicated a book to me entitled The Form and Manner of Subvention or Helping for poor people, Devised and Practised in the City of Ypres. It was a treatise on recent policies introduced in Ypres that were said to be of good note.
“My very mind, intent and meaning is (by putting of this honourable and charitable provision in mind) to occasion your grace to be a mediatrix and mean unto our most dread sovereign lord… for the stablishing and practising of the same or of some other, as good or better, such as by His Majesty or his most honourable council shall be devised,” said the dedication. Marshall wanted me to take it to Henry and his Council.
Upon reading this, I sent it to Cromwell with a note, asking that the practices in the book be examined to see if they might be used also in England. I took a copy to Henry. He was delighted with it, and called for me when he had read it so we could discuss the ideas.
“I find many worthy ideas in this tome,” said Henry, tapping a finger, fat as a sausage, on the leather cover.
“And if any monasteries must be closed, there will be funds to enable much to go ahead for the good of your people,” I said.
“I have been meaning to speak to you about that,” said Henry. “Thomas said you were adamant about those funds going back to the people, but it will be necessary to use some for defence of the realm.”
“I am sure both aims can be achieved,” I said smoothly. “What of the taxes set in place only last year? Could they not be called on to use for fortifications?”
I caught a distant flicker of insecurity in his eyes and touched his hand. “I feel uncomfortable, Henry, in the notion of taking from the Church to give to war. Our Lord was a man of peace. No doubt God understands the necessity of protecting your people from harm… but there is something that feels wrong about this. Do you not feel the same? For if you, with your conscience and spirit so close to God do not waver, I will be led by you.”
Henry stared at my hand. I could smell indecision wafting from him like perfume. “I think you are right,” he said. “And truly, I never thought about it in that way until now.”
I sat back, pleased. If Cromwell was trying to persuade Henry to rob the churches and give nothing back, I had at least planted a seed of doubt in my husband’s mind.
Chapter Nineteen
Whitehall Palace and Greenwich Palace
February – March 1535
“You should not fill your book with idle posies!” I snapped at Mary Shelton.
Her prayer book was in my hands. I had seen her scribbling in it at prayers at church that morning and handing it to Tom. When he had laughed quietly, I knew it was no prayer she had shown him. When we reached my chambers, I demanded the book, and she surrendered it most unwillingly. I found a witty poem in it, deriding the possibility of love at court.
“You should spend your time in church with God, not with Master Wyatt!” I shouted.
In truth, I was not angry about the poem. I saw it not, but I was seeking an excuse to shame Mary. I was jealous,
resentful, and wanted to spite her. It made no sense, but emotions often do not.
Mary endured her scolding with grace, but was relieved to take back her book and fly to her friends. Later in the day, I took her aside. “Mary,” I said. “I do not know what possessed me this morning. I should not have upbraided you, for oftentimes have I written in my book of hours. If you are a sinner, I am too.”
“I understand, my lady,” she said. “Sometimes, when we are fractious and ill at ease, we find trifles become as mountains.”
How did this young girl understand so much? It is not her fault, I told myself. If you want someone to blame, Anne Boleyn, blame yourself.
But a few days later, I was scolding again. Not Mary this time, but one of her suitors. Weston was courting her, even though he had a wife he claimed to adore. When I saw his attentions increase, I was angered… infuriated on behalf of the wife I believed he was betraying.
“My cousin may shortly become engaged to Norris,” I said. “And you have a wife, Weston. It is not fitting that you pay so much attention to Mary. Think on your wife and be grateful for her love!”
“You seem to be often in a temper, Majesty,” said Tom that afternoon as we strolled through the long gallery. Outside, rain was falling steadily from the skies. It was no deluge or tempest, just a seemingly unending stream of soaking mist that drenched the unwary… a common occurrence in England.
“I do not like to see honest women made fools of,” I retorted. “Men should honour their wives.” Seeing his face fall, since his wife and he had separated some time ago, I touched his arm. “I do not mean in cases where there is no love, Tom,” I said gently. “That is why I rarely scold you or George. But Weston claims to love his wife, and she him. Should he not save his affection for her?”
“Some men cannot resist flirtation when it is offered,” said my friend.
My eyes dragged to Henry. Standing at the end of the hall with Mary, he pulled a silk cloth from his sleeve and offered it to her. When she tried to hand it back, having wiped her eyes after laughing, he refused, pushing it into her hands with a sloppy smile.
“As I have daily proof,” I murmured.
Inside me, the broken one wailed.
*
In late February, Gontier, Brion’s secretary was back at court to continue negotiations.
“You have taken a long time to return,” I said scathingly when he came to pay his respects.
My quarters were crowded with enemies and friends. Henry was trying to convince Mary Shelton to dance as Weston played on his lute. Everyone was watching me, as they always were… eager to see if I would explode.
“Your delay has caused the King great suspicion,” I went on. “He does not like to be insulted by a king he once considered a great friend.”
“I assure you, madam,” said Gontier. “We took the time that was needed.”
“If your master does not ally the concerns of the King, and mine too, we are left in a precarious position,” I said, and leaned forward. “And I am left in a position more fragile than before my marriage. I thought France my friend, but it would seem your master, François, has forgotten the promises he made to me.”
I looked around. Everyone wanted to know what we were saying; my friends because they wanted France to support me, and my enemies for the opposite reason. I could feel eyes burning into me. “I can say no more,” I said in a low voice. “Not with everyone watching.”
I withdrew, my heart pounding. Henry took hands with his mistress and started to dance.
*
Cromwell was away from court that March. Illness, brought on, I suspected, from too much work granted him rheum in the eyes. I dispatched Doctor Butts with a solution of eyebright, and Cromwell sent a message back, expressing gratitude.
Cromwell was not the only one absent. He had long been working against those who would oppose him on the Council, granting leaves of absence to his detractors, and not hurrying them back to court. He had also been annoying Norfolk, embarking on a constant campaign to oust him. Cromwell succeeded. Norfolk left for his country estates that spring, declaring he was sick of court and sicker still of Cromwell. This weakened Gardiner’s position further, since he relied on the Duke for support. Gardiner was not a favourite of Henry’s, especially given his support for the clergy in the past.
And Gardiner loathed Cromwell. After all, he had been forced to surrender his position as Henry’s secretary to him. But Gardiner was canny enough not to show it openly, and professed friendship, knowing the favour Cromwell enjoyed in Henry’s eyes. Cromwell reciprocated, but their show of affection was false as Norfolk’s teeth, and everyone knew it. With Norfolk gone, however, Cromwell grew bolder. He started to taunt Gardiner openly in Council, mocking him for having supported the clergy over the King. When Gardiner accused Cromwell of trying to undermine him, Cromwell acted as though he was surprised and hurt.
Little battles, little wars… all fought in the close confines of court every day. Little did we know what would come of them.
That Maundy Thursday I went out amongst the people to give alms. To my chagrin, Henry countermanded my orders that Katherine should not distribute Maundy money. “She is the Dowager of Wales,” he reminded me. “It is traditional that royal ladies grant money to the poor. My grandmother did in my father’s reign, even though she was only the King’s mother. To stop Katherine doing this will only cause trouble with Spain.”
I had agreed, with poor grace, consoling myself that Katherine had not much to give. But I was further upset when I learned Henry had sent her money, through Cromwell, to grant to the poor.
“How am I ever to be recognised as Queen when Katherine is promoted in my place?” I asked Nan Gainsford.
“Your offerings are far more generous than the Dowager’s ever were, my lady,” she replied. “The people will see that.”
When the time came to distribute the purses, I felt some satisfaction when I saw the look of surprise on the rude faces before me. When they felt the weight of the purses, they were stunned, and happy. As we walked away from one group, I heard one lady. “That’s more than the last Queen gave, whatever you say,” she said, talking to a filthy man, pitted with pox scars. The sickness had robbed him of his lashes and brows, and pinned one of his eyelids to his cheek. He was nodding in agreement, testing the weight of the bag against his palm.
“This is for you,” I said to a little boy, slipping a silver ring from my finger and onto his. “Soon I hope God will send me a son like you.”
His mother was overcome. She flung herself to the floor and grabbed my skirts. Guards moved to pull her back, but I held up my hand. She looked up. She was not much younger than I, with deep blue eyes and fair hair. She had a pretty face, but her skin was grey and her hands were coarse and reddened from years of hard work. Her gown was ill-fitting, tight and drab. She gazed up with tired eyes that shone with gratitude. That ring could feed her family for a year.
I kissed her head. Although the girl smelt unwashed, I did not care. I wanted Henry’s people to see that I was not this evil Jezebel they had been told I was.
“You have my blessing,” I said. “May God’s light shine upon you. Your lad is a fine boy, Mistress. I hope to have the same blessing as you one day. My daughter is a beautiful girl, and I adore her, but every mother loves her sons. We become used to caring for men, do we not, Mistress? And so we long for boys, so we might continue our good service.”
The woman laughed and put an arm around her son, executing a clumsy curtsey. “God bless you, good Queen Anne,” she said. “God bless and keep you.”
How it touched me to be named good! A simple kindness means a great deal to a heart that has known slander and hate. Before we moved on I touched her shoulder. “Take care of your little boy. Use the ring wisely. Buy bread, for all men must eat, but feed his mind, too. Send him to school, for this new world holds many opportunities and men can rise higher than the station they were born to, if they have love for God and our
King.”
We moved on, putting heavy purses into grasping, grateful, often desperate hands. There were shouts of “God bless you, Queen Anne!” and “God bless the King and Queen!”
Many nights I lay awake, wondering feverishly where Henry was and what, or whom, he was doing. But that night I simply fell into the heavy, dark arms of sleep and felt the coolness of simple and happy dreams wash over me like water in a crystal stream.
I do not fully recall my dreams, but I remember smiling faces, happy laughter, the grateful mother and her handsome son, looking up with eyes that sparkled with new hope.
And perhaps God was watching me, and approved, for later that week, when I looked for my monthly bleeding, it did not appear. I wrapped my arms about my body and smiled as I lay in bed. Each morning there was no sign of blood. No cramps, no sense that the world despised me.