by G Lawrence
Other matters I remit to your wisdom and judgement as a trusted friend, to whom I pray God will give health,
Katherine, the Queen.”
“Marie de Salinas went to Henry?” I asked. I had not heard of this.
“On another mission to move Lady Mary closer to her mother,” said George. “But that was not what I thought you would find interesting.”
“No,” I said. “I understand.”
So, you are dying, Katherine? my mind asked the presence within it.
What care have you for me? she responded. Have you not long thought that when I am gone, you will finally be Queen? That when I am dead, your children will no more be questioned?
I had indeed thought all those things. Many was the time I had wished Katherine dead. But, as I read about her frail condition, regret entered my heart.
Perhaps it was because her voice had been so long inside my mind. Perhaps because with her dead she would become a martyr to the people. Perhaps it was her proud, unending calmness, even in the face of death… but something in me was uneasy.
I thought back to the dream I had had on the night before I lost my son. You are my death, she had said. And I am yours.
A shudder passed through me.
That night I dreamt of a storm which came with no warning and gave no quarter. I stood in the centre of whirling wind and lashing rain. An invisible barrier stood between me and the elements. Rain fell, but it did not touch me. The winds stole my hair to fly in the skies, but did not strike my face.
There I stood, alone, as about me the world was torn asunder.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Winchester, Hampshire
September 1535
I was glad to escape Wulfhall. Glad to get away from the kin of the woman attempting to defile my name in Henry’s ears. Glad to escape her too-talkative mother. We rode out one bright, cloudless day with the sun beating on our caps. The air was stiff, breezeless, still… a storm was coming.
My suspicions were proved correct. We reached Winchester through a raging tempest. Weighty cloaks were made heavier still by rain, and sheets of leather had been flung over the wagons bearing our chests, attempting to prevent ruin coming for our clothes, furniture and baggage. But for all our precautions, I felt like a drowned cat when I reached my chambers. Puddles of water were everywhere, and my ladies scampered and slipped, dripping upon the rushes, simultaneously attempting to attend to me and get the chests opened to ensure everything was safe.
“Go to!” I said irritably. “See to my possessions. Check the books first. I do not want them ruined.” I turned to Nan Cobham and Margery Horsman. “You two come with me, and send for water for a bath. All other hands to the baggage!”
My ladies chuckled as I squelched off to change.
The summer storm was fierce and wild. The countryside, dried to a husk under the sun, swiftly became a swamp. Roads were flooded, homes became unusable, and farmers risked their lives trying to save herds.
“What a storm!” said Norris that night. “I have never seen its equal.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Smeaton has a task to try to drown it out.”
The lad was playing true and bold, but the feral wind defied him, shrieking over Winchester like a banshee. I shuddered to hear it.
“My lady, are you cold?” Norris asked.
“I am fine, Norris,” I said, smiling. “How is it that you always know when my body moves? No one else notices.”
I was surprised to see his high cheekbones flush. He looked away, seemingly embarrassed, and I was baffled as to why.
*
In the days of our ancestors, Winchester had been England’s capital. It was an ancient seat, with fine houses and a magnificent cathedral. Perhaps it was therefore fitting what occurred later in that cathedral; the dawn of a new age from amongst the old.
As we engaged in indoor pursuits, being banished from the country by rain, Jean de Dinteville arrived. Sent as a special envoy from François and his sister, Dinteville presented Marguerite’s compliments.
“My greatest wish,” I said, “next to having a son, is to see Queen Marguerite again.”
Dinteville brought news. The Pope, he said, was outraged by Henry’s conduct, most especially the execution of Cardinal Fisher. That summer, Pope Paul, with the backing of the College of Cardinals, had sent out the papal command which deprived Henry of his kingdom, and had written to François asking him ratify the sentence.
“My master, naturally, has no intention of doing any such thing,” Dinteville said swiftly, seeing Henry’s colour rising. “He thinks that this Pope, much like the last, is embedded in the Emperor’s pocket and seeks your aid to free him. My King assures me that if his good brother would join him to assault Italy, together you might free the Pope and satisfy your mutual troubles at the same time.”
Good brother, is it now? I wondered. Now you want something, François …
Henry did not appear to be listening to Dinteville as he rattled on. I knew Henry. He was worried. A papal command that he be deprived of his kingdom was no light matter. Although, even if issued formally this day, Pope Paul’s threat would not come into action for a year… but what if his people heard of it and chose to rebel?
“We will think on these matters,” I said after Dinteville finished and a thick, awkward silence fell. “Leave your letters with us, my lord. We will have an answer for you soon.” I looked about the chamber, seeing rain slip down the windowpanes like tears. “Leave us,” I said to the other petitioners. “The King must consult with his Council to see if a holy crusade to free the Bishop of Rome from the clutches of corruption may be undertaken by England.”
Henry glanced at me with grateful eyes. For once he did not mind that I had interfered, and squeezed my fingers hard.
“Let us set aside François’ requests,” I said as soon as we were left with just Cranmer and Cromwell. “We have no need to insult any of our intelligences by lingering on that false friendship.”
“That is certain,” growled Henry. “But how to counteract this papal brief? Some answer must be given. To allow it to be heard by my people…”
I wrapped my tiny fingers about his. “Your people love you, my lord,” I said gently. “Do not allow the blackness of this to dupe your mind into seeing enemies where there are none. The Pope, Rome, France, Spain… they are foes, but your people are not. And, as we have seen…” I waved my free hand at Dinteville’s papers, “… all once-enemies may become friends again, when they want something.”
“You are right,” he said. “God’s Blood! In my misery at the corruption of France and Rome I am brought to doubt the love of England!” He stared at me with fierce eyes. “I will not let the Bishop of Rome drive a wedge between me and my people!”
“He will never have the power to do that, my lord,” I said. “Your people believe in you, as I do. They know all you do is for their betterment. They would follow you even into death with perfect trust and perfect love.”
“Aye,” he said, clutching my hand.
“I will put it to the Council,” said Henry. He turned to Cromwell. “Gather them. There is no time to waste.”
As Cromwell scurried off, I turned to Henry and Cranmer. “I think, my lord, that whilst this affair is dealt with by your Council, we should do something ourselves. Something to demonstrate to your people that they have no need to fear Rome. Something to show that we are just.”
“What do you mean, Anne?”
“We are to consecrate three bishops this month, are we not?” I asked. “Foxe, Latimer and Hilsey.” I gazed at Henry and saw he was starting to understand my meaning.
Because of fears about how the public would react, the consecration of new bishops had been subtle affairs. But now, we needed to demonstrate our might. We required an open show of defiance and courage, not only to inspire Henry’s people, but to inform the Pope we feared him not. Fisher’s bishopric of Rochester was presently vacant, and Henry had passed an Act taking back E
nglish Sees held by Italian men, and foreign cardinals. Salisbury had been stripped from the odious Campeggio, and Worcester had been taken from Ghinucci. My men were to replace them.
Nicholas Shaxton had already taken Salisbury, but Edward Foxe was to have Hereford, Hugh Latimer, Worcester, and John Hilsey, Rochester. It was a sign of Henry’s favour that men I had cultivated would become the leading lights of the new English Church.
“Let us make a grand event of this occasion,” I said. “Let His Eminence perform the ceremony, and let us attend, my lord. Together, as a united front, we will show the people the might of their King.”
Henry stared as though he were seeing me for the first time. He reached out, a wondering look in his eyes, and gently touched my face. “You always know,” he murmured. “You always know how to comfort me.”
“I say this not only to bring you comfort, my lord,” I said. “But because this is the time for us to act. We have been quiet too long. We should not hide in the shadows. We are in the right, and Rome in the wrong. Let God see our courage, my lord, and perhaps then He will bless our reign.”
“You are right,” he said. “Perhaps God saw our gentle ways and disapproved! Perhaps this is the reason we were denied our sons.”
Cranmer was gazing at me as though I were the best gift anyone had granted him on New Year’s morn. I could see he was inspired.
“You would be happy to preside, Eminence?” I asked.
“Joyous to be used for the will of God, Majesty.”
Henry laughed. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. Going to Cranmer, he threw his arm about the shoulders of his Archbishop and pulled him close. I did not hear what he whispered, but Cranmer smiled.
Henry bounded up the dais like a young stag and kissed me. “I go to the Council,” he said. “But I will come to you tonight.”
Watching him almost run off, with a new energy in his gait, I turned to my friend. “What did His Majesty say?”
Cranmer smiled and opened his eyes wide, teasing me. “As a man of the cloth,” he said. “I cannot break sacred trust.”
“Was it a confession, then?”
“It was, madam.” Cranmer smiled wider. “But rest assured, it was one of perfect love and perfect trust from a husband to his wife.” I smiled to hear him ape my words about Henry’s people.
That night, Henry came to me. Although his Council had found nothing secure they could work on to counter the papal bill, he was suffused with enthusiasm. The thought of defying Paul had inspired him.
Henry arrived with his men, dressed in his nightshirt. There was much ribald jesting, as though we were being put to bed on our wedding night… something that had, in fact, never happened for us.
As Henry all but leapt into my bed and waved his men away, I could not help but grant Jane Seymour a great, fat grin, as she turned to close the door. Her face did not change, but I hoped I had shown her that whilst Henry might protest he adored her, he loved only me.
*
On the 19th of September, Latimer, Foxe and Hilsey were consecrated in Winchester Cathedral. It was a magnificent ceremony. With Henry and me in the royal box, Cranmer officiating, and every prelate and noble within three counties commanded to attend, the Cathedral was packed. Droves of common men and women swarmed to us too, drawn by the lure of alms, celebration and worship of God.
I watched them, my men, on the dais as they were welcomed as God’s warriors. I had supported them, promoted their careers and brought them to this place. With my hand guiding them, we would bring England to new hope, and new life, for the glory of God and the honour of the people.
Pungent incense poured through the air, and the choir sang. As Cranmer spoke ancient words, conferring the rights of these men upon them, I felt utterly content. My marriage was imperfect, and perhaps would always be so, but there was much to grant satisfaction, if one was willing to see it.
The only thing that delighted me more than witnessing this public, brave, bold ceremony, was to see the Catholic faction looking ill at ease. The appointment of these bishops, as radical in thought as they were able of mind, did not please the old guard of court. They wanted us to backtrack, to slide into the old ways. This was a clear sign that was not about to happen.
I held my head high. This new age was ours and all who did not support us would fall into obscurity, just as the Bishop of Rome had.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Winchester
September 1535
We had a surprising advocate who took up the task of answering the Pope’s threat; Stephen Gardiner.
Gardiner had not had a good few years. After failing to support Henry during the submission of the clergy he had left court, hoping to distance himself from Henry’s wrath. He had lost his post as King’s Secretary, and had been the subject of investigation by Cromwell, on Henry’s orders, on suspicion of doubting the supremacy.
But worms have ways of surviving in their dank little holes.
The crisis of the papal bull brought Gardiner into the Council again, and it was he who came up with the best answers. Chosen to respond to Pope Paul, he had a ready quill and a clever mind, and was keen to show himself Henry’s true subject.
Gardiner’s first draft was fiery. It declared the Pope had no cause to mourn a traitor like Fisher, and the Bishop’s death had been merciful. The final draft, approved by Cromwell, was entitled De Vera Obedientia, Of True Obedience. It defended the supremacy and censured Rome, using Scripture as its authority. Gardiner wrote that he, like many other bishops, had sworn an oath to the Pope, but had been deceived. The loyalty of England’s clergy was due to its King, he argued, therefore oaths sworn to Rome were unlawful.
Gardiner, inflated by new respect and favour, worked day and night. As Henry admitted himself impressed by his work, Gardiner began boasting, and Cromwell grew annoyed.
“How swift do men forget how far they fell in times of trouble when new opportunities are granted,” he said.
“You are finding the good Bishop irritating?”
“I am finding the good Bishop irritating.” Cromwell smiled. “We, neither of us, madam, have any cause to trust Gardiner. He has never supported the supremacy, nor your marriage.”
“Once he did. Once he asked me to be his patron.”
“Those days are long gone, Majesty. It falls to us now to find another post for Gardiner. Once his use is spent in this matter, he should be sent away.”
“Are there not enough chairs in the Privy Council Chamber?” I asked, teasingly, “… that you and Gardiner cannot fit about the same table?”
“When he is present, Majesty, space diminishes rapidly.”
“The King has been speaking of sending another ambassador to France,” I said. “Perhaps Gardiner, having proved his worth here, might become useful there?”
“That would be a fortunate appointment,” Cromwell said, his eyes dancing.
I was willing to aid Cromwell. In truth, I was none too sure about Gardiner myself. He had shown how quickly he could switch sides more than once, and I wondered how long he would remain loyal this time. My brother was unhappy not to be chosen as ambassador, but I explained the reasons.
“Besides,” I added. “Whilst François reaches out to us now, he still does not hold with our sympathies. Perhaps it would be better to send one of the old guard, to show him that whilst much has altered in England, much also has not.”
“And Gardiner is so eager to prove himself that he will not allow any to speak against the supremacy openly,” mused my brother.
Within a week of finishing his brief, Gardiner was sent to France.
I never saw him again.
*
Upon his return to London, as he left us hawking and hunting in the West Country, Cromwell suspended the powers of all English bishops to allow his men to complete their surveys. He invoked his authority as Vicar-General to establish a court which would return these powers gradually, making it clear bishops were now officers of the state, bou
nd to serve the King. Like the Whitestaffs, when the King died, so would the bishops’ powers. It would be up to the next King to reinstate this authority, meaning that the bishops were not only sworn to offer loyalty, but their future authority and careers depended on it. No more would men of the Church live free and feckless. No… They were lashed to the supremacy, chained to the royal line.