by G Lawrence
Bromham was the more impressive of the two houses. Baynton had made great improvements to his former manor, and there were rooms enough to house seven hundred guests. Whilst the privacy afforded to us at smaller houses departed as we reached Bromham, it did not seem to matter. Henry and I had grown close once more.
Whilst at Bromham, Henry came to my chambers. “I have something for you,” he said, holding out a package of velvet with a crimson ribbon about it.
I swallowed. Although the flashes of memory that accompanied that colour had abated, there was still something in the shade to make me uncomfortable. But I could not show that. I had to pretend. If Henry was to know that I suffered from these blinking lights of memory, he might think I was possessed by malevolent spirits. “For me?” I asked, standing. “What more could you give me?”
Henry smiled and passed the package to me. Unwrapping it, I discovered a pendant with a central diamond, and the initials H&A intertwined in gold over it. There were rings, too. One of gold with a bright diamond bearing the H&A cipher. The other two were simple gold bands; one with The Mooste Happi about its rim, and the other with a Latin inscription, “O Lord, make haste to help me.”
I gazed into the bundle of presents, knowing this beauty was Holbein’s work. The ring with the Latin inscription was clearly a message from Henry to his Maker, but that he had granted it to me meant we were united in our prayers. The items with our initials on them touched me deeply. I looked up into Henry’s eyes and felt my breast beat with the warmth of love.
“They are spectacular,” I said, touching the rings with the tip of my finger. “You honour me.”
“You are my wife,” he said gruffly, looking almost shy. “And I love you.”
*
“He is a good, honest man, who has lost his livelihood,” said Hugh Latimer, his earnest face pleading. “His wife has come to beg mercy and aid.”
“I will see her,” I said. “Bring her in.”
The woman who came before me was poorly dressed, although clearly not of one of the most desperate, lower orders of people in England. Her hair had been washed and presented under a becoming cap. She was young, but her eyes, although pretty and blue, held a helpless glaze.
“Your husband has lost his cattle to sickness, I am told?” I asked as she executed a surprisingly graceful curtsey.
“He has, Your Majesty,” she said in a tremulous tone. “He asked me to come to you, as he thought…”
“That I might respond more to the pleas of a woman, than those of a man?” I asked with a smile and she nodded. “It is true, good Mistress, I have sympathy with the trials of women in this hard world.” I nodded to Latimer. “My chaplain has informed me that you are of his Parish, and are good people of abiding faith. He says you attend church every Sunday, and many days during the week. I am encouraged to meet people like you, who embrace reform, and understand that grace and godliness does not come without work and effort.”
I smiled wider. “But that, I suspect, you understand from experience, do you not? It can be harsh toil being a farmer’s wife. You work the soil, you tend your cattle, and are rewarded by God for your effort. I hope to do the same in England. I will tend the earth and grow the crops. I will wash the water of purity upon corrupt soil, and from it, fresh shoots will come, to nurture the people of God. But sometimes, God sends us trials, as He has sent to you. And in such times, it is the duty of the nobility, graced with more resources and wealth, to aid those who follow the King with loyalty, and who willingly undertake sacrifices of change and alteration, in order to make our new world.”
I turned to Latimer, who was looking mightily pleased that his petitioner had not only been heard, but praised publicly by his Queen. “My chaplain has a gift for you,” I said. “It is an initial payment, to aid you and your husband in this time of trouble. I have many affairs to deal with, so may not be able to meet you again, but Latimer will watch over you.”
The woman was handed the purse. She opened it and her eyes flashed wide.
“Twenty pounds,” I said. There was a collective gasp from courtiers standing nearby. It was a vast sum, far larger than this woman or her husband would earn in a year. “This will enable you to get back on your feet, Mistress, and keep attending church to show your gratitude to God.”
“My Queen…” Words stumbled on her lips and her face was ruddy. “I know not how to express my thanks.”
“Attend church, worship God and love your King,” I said. “That is all the thanks that will be required.” I nodded to Latimer. “You will come to me if anything else is required for this woman and her family?” I asked and he nodded. “Then all is well. Go home, Mistress, and share this good fortune with your husband.”
“I shall, Majesty,” she said, her eyes becoming bolder. “And everywhere I go, I will tell all who ask that Queen Anne is a good woman, who aided us in our time of need.”
From the tone of her voice, I could tell she thought many people would think otherwise. But there was a ferocity in her that inspired my soul. I did not shout about my charitable works, but if this woman, and others I had helped were willing to speak for me, much good could be done to my reputation.
My annual charitable givings amounted to one thousand five hundred pounds per year, the average income of a nobleman. A labourer would earn five pounds a year, and a merchant one hundred. The amount of money I granted to noble causes was therefore a fortune. As Queen, my income was vast, and if I could support the poor, especially those who were loyal to our cause, why should I not? They were a part of the future. They were the blood that ran to our heart.
The next day, emboldened by the audience with the farmer’s wife and the new closeness between Henry and me, I made a decision. My efforts with Cranmer and Cromwell to have Tyndale released had not borne fruit. The Emperor, who previously had been reticent about persecuting Englishmen on his doorstep, now seemed interested in keeping this one… because he knew how desperately Henry wanted to get hold of him. Cranmer was concerned that Tyndale would be executed, and had written to Cromwell and me to persuade us to approach Henry directly. Subterfuge, he wrote, was not working, and straight-talking would have to take over.
Cromwell and I were on fragile terms, but in this we were united. We went to Henry together, to ask him to intervene, and save Tyndale from the flames.
“Were he to be brought to England,” I said. “You would be able to talk with him. Perhaps when he has seen your generosity, he would change his mind about our marriage.”
“He does not recognise you as Queen, Anne,” Henry grumbled.
Thinking about the English Bible in my chambers, I did not think this was the case. “And yet I would forgive him,” I said. “He could work for us, Henry, and when set right by you, he would be valuable.”
“And you concur, Thomas?”
Thomas, I thought. Thomas today, as I am Anne. Not Cromwell and madam. Henry is in a good mood.
“I do, sire,” said Cromwell. “Besides which, the man is an English subject. It is not for the Emperor to punish him.”
I liked Cromwell’s train of thought not at all, but I understood his purpose. Any suggestion that another man might steal Henry’s authority from him was insupportable.
“Letters will be sent,” Henry said. “The Emperor is keen for our friendship. I will ask him to release Tyndale into the custody of your man, Vaughan.”
As Cromwell left, I kissed Henry. “Thank you,” I said.
“You have long admired this man,” he replied. “I would do anything to make you happy.”
“There is another I admire more,” I said. “You. You set aside the grief and sorrow Tyndale caused you, and intervene to free him. You forge ahead with the reform of your Church, and make even my foes honour me.” A wash of love, so strong and deep I thought I might cease to breathe, flooded over me. “Never have I loved as I love you,” I said.
His eyes were warm and tender as he took me in his arms. “You are my soul, Anne,” he mur
mured into my hair. “And the only thing that keeps me sane. You set my feet upon the track that will lead from the darkened woods. You keep my hand steady upon my sword.” He pressed his lips to my throat. “God forgive me if I ever forget all you mean to me.”
Later that day, Henry spoke warmly of the notion of an English Bible. The idea had been put forward some time ago, but Tyndale’s translation had not proved popular, due to his slandering of traditional faith. Cranmer was attempting to produce a new version, working with his bishops, but many sections of this were still being perfected. Henry had been tepid about Cranmer’s project, but, enthused by the notion that Tyndale might soon be in England, and he could convince him to support his supremacy, he became inspired.
“I greet this with a grateful heart,” I said as he told me he would order Cranmer to spur his men on. “Long have you known my opinion.”
“And you were right,” he said. “I will order it done, so our people will hear the voice of God in their hearts, and understand the grace of our reign.”
I could not have been happier.
Shortly… Oh, how shortly, that would alter.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Wulfhall
September 1535
By early September, we were riding into Somerset, bound for Wulfhall, the seat of the Seymours. Edward Seymour was rising high in Henry’s estimations, and although my husband thought I saw it not, so was Edward’s sister.
Henry was careful. He paid court to Jane only when I was not around. This was his pattern. When aggrieved with me, he would court women openly, seeking to shame, punish, and hurt me. When reminded of our love, he was cautious.
Can you grow used to this, Anne Boleyn? I asked myself as we rode towards Wulfhall. Can you accept he will always stray, that he will be disloyal? I knew not. I was addicted to Henry’s love. It was my torment and my pleasure, my sorrow and my happiness. But there was another part of me that had started to accept, knowing he would always come back to me.
I was three women. One was the broken woman I kept hidden away; another was Anne Boleyn, a raw and broken heart kept hidden under a wall of bright gaiety and flirtatious fortifications. The last was the Queen; a more pragmatic creature. I think I was starting to understand that Henry, too, was many souls bound in one form.
As we rode up the lane, cattle braying in the fields, and sheep thick against the fences, sheltering from the wind, Wulfhall came into view. Made of red bricks, smouldering in the afternoon sun, and timber frames which had been painted white, it was a handsome house. There was a central courtyard and a large private chapel, gardens with Tudor roses marked out by raised beds and coloured sand, and winding pathways leading into sheltered arbours, and further, away into the dark trails of the forest. Stained glass shone from the chapel windows, marking the ground outside with a myriad of dancing, bright colours. Wulfhall’s walls glowed like warm blood.
Wulfhall was grand, but clearly had been improved upon. I suspected it had once been a mere farmstead. In the large courtyard set before the house there was a huge barn, its roof crested with vast timbers, stretching like the ribcage of a mighty whale, burned white by the sun, where, Edward told me, they held dances and feasts.
“I was married there, for the first time,” he said, and flushed, clearly thinking it unwise to bring up his first wife, Catherine Filliol, who had rutted with his father and been cast aside when Edward had discovered her incestuous infidelity. She had been sent to a convent, but had died earlier that year, enabling him to marry again. They said that his father had lost his wits, perhaps understanding what the scandal had brought upon his son, and entire family.
I pitied the young man. His sister might be Henry’s next whore, which hardly endeared me to her family, but Edward did not deserve to carry such shame. He had two sons, but after Catherine’s betrayal, he doubted their paternity. There was talk he meant to petition Henry so he might disinherit them. What a cruel choice for a father to have to make!
I touched his shoulder. “You have a new wife now,” I murmured. “Anne Stanhope is a good woman.” I paused and sniffed. “People like to talk, Master Seymour. They engage in scandal when there is little else to divert them. Take no notice. This sin was not yours. Others carry the weight of this corruption, not you.”
He stared at me, perhaps startled that I would speak so kindly to him. “I will endeavour to do as you suggest, Majesty,” he said.
“Whatever people say of us cannot touch us if we remain true to ourselves,” I added. “Keep peace within yourself, Master Seymour. The world will follow suit, no matter how long it may take.”
Henry was pleased to see me talking with Edward. He had been impressed by the young man and thought he had a bright future. You might think this was all to do with his fancy for Edward’s sister, but it was not. Henry rewarded men for talent. If they happened to have a kinswoman he liked, so much the better, but it was not the wiles of a mistress he rewarded but the wit of minds. The same accusation had been levied at my father. Some said Thomas Boleyn would never have risen so far if not for the open legs of his daughters. But if so, my father would still be in favour, and he was not. He had been eclipsed by George, Norris and Cromwell.
“Come, Ned,” Henry cried, clapping Edward hard on the back. “Take us to your family.”
We entered the manor and feasted that night with the Seymour family. Their table was rich with wild game; venison Henry had sent ahead from his numerous hunts that summer, along with roasted bittern, quail, pigeon and hare. Savernake Forest bordered their lands, and offered plenty of bounty. They might not be the greatest of nobles, but the Seymours kept a fine table. Despite the tasty foods and rich ale offered, there was a conspicuous, cool air at dinner. Edward’s father was kept from saying a great deal by his wife. Each time he tried, she placed a warning hand on his arm. Clearly, they wanted no one to see that his mind had come unhinged.
Edward also did not talk to his father more than he had to, and his mother sometimes blushed without cause. Clearly, despite John Seymour’s infirmity, the trouble between Edward and his father was not forgotten. How could it ever be? For a father to keep his daughter-in-law as a mistress, possibly fathering the boys supposed to belong to his son? How could that be forgiven?
I watched Jane Seymour that night, starting to understand the nature of Henry’s attraction. Jane was seven years younger than me, but seemed like a child. There was an air of innocence about her. But such wiles as any maiden might possess was not what drew Henry to her. She had a compelling way of looking at a man without looking directly at him… a glance, the upward tilt of her downcast eyes… as though she were saying here I am, yours to command. She gazed at him in short spurts, allowing her pale eyes to seek him out as if she could not help herself. When he looked into her eyes, he was the only man in the world.
“What man would not feel comforted by such trust in a woman’s eyes?” I asked Mary Howard as we whispered about Jane.
“And what woman would not see that trust was as false as teeth made from the leavings of the unfortunate dead?” she murmured back.
I laughed loudly, causing people to stare at me. The air was thick with the scent of sweet herbs, but the smell of wet earth and fresh rain wafted in too. The night smelt new and unsullied, but as I watched Henry glance more and more at Jane, all purity left me. I sipped my wine and entertained bitter thoughts, wondering if I could ever reconcile the women struggling within me.
*
A day later, I found myself in the gardens. Mistress Seymour, Margery Wentworth as she had been known before her marriage, had been talking at me all morning. I say at, rather than to, as that was the way it was. Some people do not, apparently, need to breathe between sentences.
Margery was the daughter of Anne Say, making her my mother’s first cousin. Although it was hard to find anyone who was not related at court, Margery took our blood connection as an excuse to speak to me at any, and every, moment we were at Wulfhall. She reminisced about the da
ys when she and my mother had been in the household of the Countess of Surrey, and the poems John Skelton had written for her. Margery had once been a great beauty, and the angles of that elegance were still upon her face, but bearing many children for her lord, ten in all, including six sons, had taken a toll. I suspected the scandal of her once beloved daughter-in-law had not helped. It is often not the years a woman has encountered or the suffering of childbirth she has faced which affects her beauty. Bitterness ages more than any other trial. I thought myself ill used by Henry, but what a fate to find that your own husband has bedded his daughter-in-law, and that your grandsons may in fact be no relation to you? You would not have known anything was amiss to see the affection she showed to her frail husband, however. Perhaps she, like so many others, held Catherine accountable, and convinced herself that the wiles of this young temptress had enticed her husband into sin.