by G Lawrence
We left Windsor for Reading in early July. The morning was broken by the happy, jumbled song of the birds. The morning light was far off, but I rose and wrapped myself in warm blankets, sitting at the window.
We had been on progress many times before, but this time there was a sense of expectation tangible on the air. Perhaps it was our combined longing to leave behind the stench of death, or to put the sorrows of our lost children behind us. Perhaps in each of our hearts there was a yearning to return to the days when our love had been simpler, cleaner… not weighed down by all the opinions of the world.
Henry came to my chambers at first light. He was eager to leave and wanted to ensure that I had everything I needed for the journey.
“I am well provided for, as always, Your Majesty,” I said. On a whim, because he looked so like a boy in his excitement, I kissed his cheek, my hands resting on the glorious purple fabric of his tunic. As my lips touched his skin, warmth surged in my soul. Since I had heard of Ethelreda’s birth, I had been cold with Henry, but something broke inside me that morning. Something hard gave way. Sometimes the hardened heart yearns to be broken, longing for the comfort of love to make it ductile once more.
As I rocked back onto my heels, his eyes were soft. Impromptu gestures touched Henry. He stroked my face, then leaned in and kissed me gently. With his touch a jolt of desire hit my blood and my stomach tightened. My hands encircled his neck and pulled him into a deeper kiss.
“Anne,” he said as we pulled apart. “There is no one like you.”
“That is because there is no one who loves you so well in all the world.” I ran my hand down his tunic, to his manhood, pushing my hands into the folds of his clothes. I felt him shudder. “We can still be away from this place early, my lord,” I said, my eyes sparkling through my long lashes “But perhaps there is a little time for a man and wife to… break our fast before we ride?”
His eyes clouded with desire and with a grunt and a nod, his servants and mine left the room, grinning widely. As the door closed, he turned, his blue eyes hungry. He walked towards me, items of rich clothing dropping from his body like leaves from an autumn tree. I unlaced the front of my gown as I backed towards the bed. A huge grin lit his face.
“Now, my lady…” he said as I fell backwards onto the bed and he pushed my dress up. “Let us see what you have to offer, for I am a hungry man this morn.”
*
Thomas More died on the 6th of July.
Fearful that to execute More at Tyburn would attract more censure, Henry commuted his sentence to beheading, and had him executed on Tower Hill.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when he emerged from his cell to make his way up the ill-built, rickety scaffold. “I pray you, Master Lieutenant,” More jested to Edward Walsingham, Lieutenant of the Tower. “See me safe up. As for my coming down, let me shift for myself.”
Before the crowds, More spoke of his love for Henry, but also for God. “I go to death as the King’s servant,” he said. “But God’s first.” He turned to the executioner. “I am sorry my neck is very short. Strike not awry, for the saving of your honesty,” and added, “I pray you, let me lay my beard over the block, lest you should cut it.”
The executioner smiled under his black mask, as did many in the crowds. More met Death with a jest on his lips.
With one cut, Sir Thomas More, once Chancellor, philosopher, author, theologian, lawyer, and great friend of the King of England, died. Cromwell was in the front row.
More’s head was set on a spike on London Bridge, replacing Fisher’s, which was tossed into the Thames. Fisher’s body was dug up and he was buried with More in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, in the Tower grounds.
When messengers brought the news to Henry, he paled. For a moment he stood, his hands shaking, as he stared at the report of More’s death. As he turned to me, his face became lost in anger.
“You have done this!” he shouted, thrusting a shaking finger in my face.
I blinked in amazement. Never once had I asked for his death.
“You have killed this man, my friend!” Henry screamed, his eyes brimming with tears. He left, leaving every noble present staring at me.
In their eyes, I saw the same accusation; More and Fisher had died at Henry’s order, but everyone believed they had died for failing to accept me as Queen.
It was not so. They had said Henry had the right to choose his wife. They did not die because I wanted it, but because Henry did. They died for the Church, for Rome, and for their faith. They died for the belief that Henry was not, and could never be, the Head of the Church.
It mattered not. I was blamed, and not only by England’s people, but by Henry too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Reading
July 1535
When Henry’s anger abated, he became morose. He did not come to me and I went not to him. I could hardly believe that he blamed me for More’s death. When had I demanded it? When had I asked for it?
I had not. But Henry could not accept the blame. He, like everyone else in England, used me. Once again, I was his whipping boy.
In truth, I was disturbed about More’s death. Long had I thought he deserved death for murdering innocent men, and yet, the manner in which he had been brought to death, potentially on false witness, troubled me. If More had been executed for burning those men, I might have rested content, but Rich’s testimony was suspect, and it disturbed me to think this was the sole reason More had gone to his death.
A story had been told, and on the basis of that had Thomas More died. Stories have power. We tell them all the time. We live in stories. Our world is made by them, crafted from word and brought to meaning by our impressions. It is just as easy to make a world of evil as it is to create one of truth. It just depends on the tale…
I sat in my chambers, thinking of the first time I had seen More, at the jousts to celebrate Henry’s coronation. I had been a girl, more interested in worshipping valiant knights than keeping watch on members of the court, but I remembered his bright, merry face. He had told my father that Henry would bring a new era of hope and peace. I doubt he had thought that at his end.
How lightly his story, his life, had touched mine then, and how intricately we had become woven together later. Stories… circles in the sand, never ending… never beginning.
I came to doubt myself. Should I have spoken for my enemy? Protested to Henry that Rich was suspect? Perhaps… but he would not have listened. Henry had wanted More dead, and he had died.
Unlike me, Pope Paul was not of two minds. He wrote to Henry, saying he had “exceeded his ancestors in wickedness,” and went on to announce he was compelled to uphold Clement’s sentence of excommunication, and declare Henry deprived by papal decree of his kingdom and royal dignity. The Pope reached out to François, who was equally shocked by More’s death, to execute justice upon Henry, “remembering the great armies with which your forefathers revenged her injuries,” he wrote, trying to stir François into action.
But still the papacy dithered. The Pope clung to the hope that he could convince Henry to return to his arms, and if he deprived him of his realm that would never happen. Rome fiddled as fires kindled, knowing that Henry was still a valuable ally to Charles and François no matter what ills were done in his name.
Cromwell, to everyone’s surprise, announced he was astonished by the Pope’s position. More and Fisher had been tried and found guilty of treason according to the laws of England, he protested.
“Their punishment was much milder than the laws prescribe,” he declared. “And many others have, from their example, returned to loyalty. Anyone of sound judgement may see how precipitately the Pope and the Roman court have taken offence at this, but these men opposed England’s laws, pretending they were given up to the contemplation of divine things, and endeavoured to refute and evade these laws by fallacious arguments. Let not the Pope be offended if the King acts in accordance with his own right and that of his kingdom.”
&nb
sp; Strong words, but they convinced few. Only fear swayed Rome’s supporters to uphold Henry. Terror of death, dread of dishonour.
More was immediately proclaimed a martyr by Rome. In all honesty, he had died for his faith, so this was true, no matter how ungodly his actions towards his fellow man had been. François and Charles condemned Henry. The Emperor said he “would rather have lost the best city of our domains than have lost such a worthy counsellor.” But the two kings did not abandon talks or speak of invasion.
Responding to allegations of injustice, Cromwell had English ambassadors posted in foreign courts extol the reasons for these executions, and told them to inform François and Charles that Fisher and More had spread sedition. He instructed his men to present these ideas whilst upholding Charles, François and Henry as brothers, united against the deceit of the papacy and all traitors. It did not work. Charles and François were horrified by Henry, and had no wish to claim close kinship with him. But abandon their brother-king, they would not. The papacy gnashed its teeth, but knew, without support from Spain and France, nothing would happen.
George was granted More’s property, but sold his new house in haste. When he arrived to join us at Reading, he admitted he could not imagine himself walking there with ease, and told me he, too, was disturbed.
“At first,” he said. “I thought Fisher and More deserved death. But I wonder now… I wonder if they were not sacrifices made on the altar of the King’s pride.”
I thought much the same. One day, I came before a portrait Holbein had done of More, and I ran from it. The likeness was so uncanny I felt as though he were watching me, accusing me… his eyes hunted mine and I could not meet them. A part of me felt deep shame and guilt. No matter how much I had disliked him, Thomas More had been wronged. He had worked evil, there was no doubt of that, but responding to evil with evil will never bring about good.
Ill had been done, and I had not stopped it. Was this why God did not bless me with a child?
My brother was anxious to hear Henry was holding me accountable. “You did not command it,” he said.
“And yet, to hear Henry, or anyone at court, you would think I ruled England.”
“He speaks from fear of repercussions.”
“He speaks from guilt,” I said. “He wants to blame someone else. With Henry there must always be someone else to accuse. He cannot accept he is anything less than perfect.” I shrugged, although my light-hearted gesture was far from representative of the foreboding in my heart. “It was the same with Wolsey,” I said. “First he accused the Cardinal’s enemies of plotting against him. Ultimately, he came to blame Wolsey. The same will be true of More, given time.”
Eventually, Henry came to me. I had refused to go to him. Where before, such a public demonstration of hatred might have sent me running to him, like the little pup he wanted me to be, I could not allow it. Condemning me might be easier than accepting accountability, but I could not allow his indictment to stand. I had too many enemies already. I did not need all who had set More on a pedestal to think me the author of his demise.
“I should not have said what I said to you,” he said. “I was full of sorrow.”
Henry could not meet my eyes. He sat on his chair, a little lost boy, and I felt my heart soften. He was adrift. I saw in him the same maze of dark horrors that lived in me.
“I know that,” I said, coming to him. “More was your friend, once, just as Wolsey was.”
Henry’s arms stretched about my waist, pulling me onto his lap. “Sometimes I think you are my only friend,” he murmured. “All others become infected with greed. They pursue their own aims and care not for mine.” He gazed into my eyes. “You alone, can I trust.”
“And I will never give you reason to doubt me.”
I kissed his forehead and stole his cap away to kiss the crown of his head. To my surprise, I found his hair was thin. It was usual for men and women to wear a hat, hood, or cowl, even in bed, so I had not noted this before. Henry was becoming bald. It was a slow but steady march his hair made as it gradually receded, but the fact he had allowed me to witness his vulnerability was deeply touching. Usually he did not like me to see illness, deformity, or signs of aging. But that day he permitted me to steal into a hidden part of his soul.
I made it my mission to distract Henry. Each night I called him to my chambers, and there he found food, drink, women and musicians. I made sure Mary Shelton was always on hand, but, to my unbounded joy, he did not want her. He wanted me.
Perhaps he was right. I was his only friend, the only one who would love him, no matter what he did. The only one he knew he could trust.
That night we reached Reading Abbey and supped with its Abbot, Hugh Farringdon. Housed in a magnificent suite of rooms at the Abbot’s house, we passed a merry evening.
As the feast came to a close, I stepped outside. My ladies huddled in the doorway, unhappy to feel the chill of the night.
I looked up. The moon was full, and so bright that the skies were almost as they were in daylight. Clouds in the distance were mountains of shadow, ice and smoke, suspended in the grey-blue skies. Delicate puffs of cloud hung near them, as though a hand had pulled tufts of lambs’ wool out and tossed them into the still air.
Only the few, brightest stars could be seen; dots gleaming in the distance, eclipsed in beauty and magnificence by the clouds and the moon.
I stood, captivated, lost to the world even as I marvelled at it.
That night, Henry came to my bed with all the enthusiasm of our younger days. Our reconciliation made him strong and confident. I felt him spill his seed deep inside me and dared to hope that we might once again have a chance to make life, and live happy, as we surely deserved to be.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Reading
July 1535
My chambers were filled with heat and conversation. Wagging tongues, forgetful of all that had passed of late, spoke of nothing but gaiety. Silk whispered on wood and ladies giggled in dark corners as gallants professed love. Musicians played bright tunes of happiness and merriment, and the sultry air, redolent with fresh scents of the countryside, spilled over us.
Had you come to dance with us that night, knowing nothing of the blood spilt at Tyburn and the Tower, you might have thought it the merriest place in the world. And to see Henry, ringed by a multitude of pretty maidens, his face flushed with wine, you would have thought he had not a care in the world.
Perhaps he did not, for Henry’s sins rested on me. The blame I had refused to accept had accepted me. It was there in everyone’s eyes. Hidden under the film of wine and good company it remained, lurking. Henry had apologised in private, but his public allegation remained. And it was not this alone that troubled me. Katherine was alone no more. More and Fisher had joined her. Finding Henry unwilling to see them, so deep was he buried in this fantasy of happiness I had created, they turned to me.
These shades did not speak. Like the eyes that accused me, they were silent. But they were there. Always there, watching me.
I sipped from my goblet, trying to ignore the phantoms at my back. How many ghosts would I gather? How many shades would walk in procession about me? And why follow me?
But I knew the answer. They followed me because I felt remorse. They ignored Henry for there was no reaching him.
I stood with Margaret Douglas, and saw her eyes linger on my uncle, Thomas Howard. The much younger brother of Norfolk, Thomas was Agnes’ son, and a fine young gallant. He was a talented poet, with a passion for puns, and was a strikingly handsome man. Many women had an eye for him, and it seemed my niece was one of them.
“You like him, do you not?” I asked quietly, staring at Thomas as I spoke.
Margaret started. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes went wide. “Before you attempt to deny it, and make those cheeks a brighter shade,” I said. “You should learn to conceal your emotions better.” There was a jesting note in my voice and the girl sagged with relief.
“I th
ink him a fine man, Majesty,” she said cautiously. “A credit to your noble house.”
“Oh… I think it more than that,” I said, sipping more wine. “I have read those poems in the book that Mary Shelton keeps. If only a part of what you and Thomas express is true, you are both very much in love.”
Her eyes stole nervously to Henry. I understood why. The actual Duke of Norfolk would be one thing, his younger brother, however, was quite another. But there were ways and means to all things with Henry. He might not think well of a match between Margaret and Thomas at first, but if I cut through to his sentimental streak, there was hope.
Love was in short supply in this world, and even when it did come, it did not arrive without unwelcome guests sent to try it. If I could help one love prevail, perhaps I would win some victory.
“Answer me true and without fear, for I will keep your secret,” I said. “Do you want to marry him?”