Judge The Best

by G Lawrence

  If this was not enough, Cromwell tightened his grip. Privileges were restricted as Cromwell withheld rights to visitation and probate, from which the clergy gathered lucrative fees.

  Power and money… Cromwell understood the hold they had on the souls of men.

  His investigations, too, were gathering pace, and as men poured into abbeys, monasteries and nunneries, complaints washed into court, detailing how unscrupulous agents were gathering evidence. As we heard more and more reports that Cromwell’s men were lying, exaggerating or fantasising in order to condemn religious houses, I became increasingly disturbed. Henry, however, accepted all the reports as truth, and was mortified.

  “I read here of orgies!” he said, his cheeks pink.

  Why do you find it so surprising that monks might breaks vows and keep mistresses, husband? I wondered. You have done the same.

  “And drunken cavorting,” he went on. “Of intoxicated monks wagering at dice, fornicating with fellow brothers and granting children to nuns!” He shook his head, looking queasy. “It is well I am here to set this right.”

  “It is,” I replied. “But let us remember, beloved, not all houses are of equal sin. Disband the fallen, by all means, but we must preserve those that can be redeemed. England cannot be left without abbeys and priests! We must reform, my love, not destroy. Did Christ not welcome the corrupt into his hallowed presence and bring them to goodness? It is up to you to show the same mercy.”

  Henry agreed. The evidence allowed us to issue a full-scale order of reformation. It was needed, but I was afraid that we might descend into a fever of righteous indignation, attacking those who had committed only minor crimes with the same wrath as those who clearly had fallen into an impenetrable pit of sin.

  It is all too easy, when a wave breaks, to be swept along.

  Many houses were guilty. Abbots and abbesses were usually elected by fellow monks and nuns. If the order was subject to laxity and pleasure, its members would choose one whom they knew would look the other way. In many monasteries, a luxurious standard of living was offered, and in nunneries it appeared the doors were not kept well locked, as pregnancies seemed rife.

  But when I looked over Cromwell’s reports, something nagged at me. It took me some days to discover what this sensation, that of a thought lingering at the edges of the mind, unable to find a path in, wanted. But in time it became clear.

  Cromwell’s reports were all too similar. It might be reasonable to suggest the sins of man are often the same, but the fact that the same sins were found in each and every house of worship troubled me. It suggested Cromwell’s men were indeed fabricating their reports.

  It also suggested Cromwell might have asked them to do so.

  This was not reform, I realised. This was the first trumpet blast of war… a war on the Church, led by Cromwell. I wondered if his eyes, like Henry’s, had lit upon the treasures of the monasteries and noted rich pickings for a soldier of fortune.

  Once a mercenary, always a mercenary, I thought. And he would make my husband a pirate too…

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Winchester

  September 1535

  Is it possible? I thought as I sat upon my horse, sick to my stomach.

  I had vomited each morning for a week. My breasts were tender and I shied from Henry’s exuberant touch at night. I did not want to say anything as yet, for fear of exciting Henry’s hopes and shattering them if I was mistaken, but I was coming to think I was with child.

  The thought filled me with as much excitement as dread. The loss of two children hung upon me, and although the flashes of memory had abated, they had not gone. I could wear red without fearing I might lose my mind, but my nights remained troubled by visions of my children. Fear was within my soul. A clammy-palmed wraith whose hands shook and heart hammered to think that I might have to face loving a child within me, and losing it again.

  I tried to set aside such fears, but the clammy presence in my soul persisted. What if you lose another child? he whispered. What if you have to face another dead baby… another streak of scarlet blood upon a cloth?

  I needed a son, but the thought of bearing not life but death from my womb again made me cold. No… I would not tell Henry until I was sure, and I would take care. If there was a child growing under my heart, I would keep it safe. Never again would I face the ghastly anguish of seeing my child born dead, nor endure the slow, lingering blood of death leeching from the midst of life.

  For that reason, I was not as active on the hunt that day as I might have been. My snail’s speed allowed me to keep pace with my ladies and some of Henry’s men… who were less interested in chasing game than they were with pursuing each other.

  Two were Mary Shelton and Norris. Their horses close together, they chatted brightly as they rode. Norris was a widower, and my cousin had been suggested as a bride for him some time ago, but he had seemed reluctant until now.

  As my husband’s Groom of the Stool, Norris knew Mary had been his master’s mistress. This, perhaps, had put him off, since if she was still sharing Henry’s bed, any children she bore would be suspect. It certainly did not appear as though he was concerned about not having a virgin wife, for now that Mary had been gently abandoned by Henry in favour of Jane Seymour, Norris paid court to his fiancée happily.

  A strange feeling entered my heart to see them. It was an ugly, creeping, uneasy sensation.

  What has Mary to recommend her above all others? I thought with a bitter tone.

  Jealous? asked Katherine.

  It was no use arguing with Katherine.

  As we rode on, ducking under branches just starting to display the golden blaze of autumn, I understood Katherine was right. I was jealous. Norris was not only a fine man, but he had been my good friend. I resented someone taking my place. He had always adored me, looked up to me, told me I was beautiful… It sounds shallow, but I envied my cousin her suitor. When one is alone, as I so often felt, the solace of an admirer is hard to set aside.

  Part of me had grown reliant on Norris. The thought of him being taken away by another woman was painful.

  *

  “Will I never be permitted to decide anything for my daughter?” I demanded. “Will everything always have to go through your Council? Through men who know nothing of children?”

  Henry glared. Lady Bryan had written from Hatfield to say that Elizabeth was able to drink from a cup by herself, and therefore had no further need for her wet nurse. I had started a letter to Lady Bryan on how Elizabeth should be weaned, as I had been reading medical texts for some months in preparation for this momentous event in my daughter’s life. But Henry had stopped me.

  “This must be agreed by me and my Council,” he said as he stood over me, casting a shadow across the letter containing my maternal advice and wisdom.

  “And as but her lowly mother, I have no say?”

  “It is unlikely to be countermanded, Anne,” he said, a strained note of immense weariness throbbing in his voice. “The Council will agree, but our daughter is a princess, and therefore everything she does must be sanctioned by them.”

  “Do I have no authority over her care, as her mother?”

  “You do,” he said, glowering. “And as I have just explained, your commands will not be rejected.” He sighed irritably. “You complain when our daughter is not accorded full respect as a princess,” he pointed out. “Yet each time you think you are being passed over, you lash out as though Elizabeth were your daughter alone. She is not. She is mine and she is England’s. Understand that, madam.”

  He turned and left. I looked down at my letter. I could concede that Henry had a point. I did indeed strike like a snake when I thought anyone was not offering Elizabeth full rights and honours, but this was no matter of marriage, or the succession, this was her weaning. Should not such a simple, intimate moment in my daughter’s life be mine? If I had breastfed her, as I had yearned to, I would have decided when to wean her. But because she had been torn
from my breast, I could not.

  As Henry promised, the Council agreed. Upon hearing this, I went back to my letter, and included all the recommendations I had found over the past few months, as well as personal messages to Lady Bryan, and my aunts. I lectured them on choosing the right milk, recommending goat above cow, as I had heard from many sources it was purer. I told them I expected the introduction of poultry and other white meats to be gradual. The best times to wean a child were either in the spring or autumn, when the moon was increasing, so I told them to start immediately, since autumn was upon us. I instructed them to only allow Elizabeth a little wine, as whilst it was common to start a child on ale and wine at the same time as meat, I had read that only small amounts should be permitted. I sent recipes for barley broth, and told them Elizabeth should be fully washed twice a week. It was said that too much play could over-heat the blood, and not enough could make a child dull, so I instructed them to play with my daughter as they saw fit, and to be strict with her tempers, so she might grow into a woman with more control over her rages than I or her father were able to exert over ours.

  When I sealed my letter that night with dripping red wax and the imprint of my royal stamp, I was satisfied, but there was an ache in my heart.

  I missed my daughter. It was a raw, constant pain. How would my Elizabeth have changed since the beginning of summer? It was my duty to be at Henry’s side, but continual separation from my child was a hard price to pay.

  I called my ladies to play cards, and as we took to the table, I noted there was someone absent. “Where is Jane Seymour?” I asked Margaret Douglas.

  “She was taken unwell, Majesty,” said Margaret. My niece was no skilled liar. Her cheeks ignited and I realised Jane was not ill.

  She was with Henry.

  *

  With relations with France improving, at least whilst François was keen to draw Henry into war against the Emperor, I took it upon myself to write to my old friend and mentor, Marguerite de Navarre. I was sure Marguerite would embrace all that we had done in England. If we could not trust her brother, I knew we could trust her.

  I had heard much of her since I had left France. Marguerite took her humanist principles seriously, even taking to the streets, so she might hear petitions of unfortunate souls in person. She called herself “The Prime Minister of the Poor” and none could doubt her devotion. She was a tender, loving soul, who brought solace to many and protected reformers. If Margaret of Austria had been my mentor in the ways women may control power, Marguerite was the paragon of what power should be used for.

  Marguerite had a daughter now, Jeanne of Navarre, but, like me, Marguerite had lost her son to bitter death. I felt this connection of sorrow brought us closer together.

  My letter was full of hope, extolling her virtues and letting her know that I hoped to give a son to my lord, as well as see our countries come together as friends. As I sent the letter, I took heart from it.

  I could not run scared from the possibility of losing my child. That, in itself, might bring this pregnancy into danger. I had to be strong, like Marguerite, and hand myself to God. In God would I trust.

  I did not know that man, not God, would let me down.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Vyne, Hampshire,

  and Windsor Castle

  October 1535

  “You are sure?”

  “How many times will you ask, Henry?” A merry smile eclipsed my face. He had asked four times already. “I am sure. I am with child.”

  A joyful bark came from his mouth as he leapt, pulling me into his arms. “God has heard our prayers,” he said, burying his head in my hair and knocking my becoming cap of purple velvet awry. “You said it, did you not? When you asked for the ceremony for our bishops? You said God would approve!”

  I laughed, wrapping my arms about my husband. It was a hard task. That summer, hunting and hawking had not stripped weight from Henry as they had in other years. He had never been a small man, but now I felt like a slight fairy embraced by a great troll when he took hold of me.

  “I will go to church and give thanks,” he said, kissing me over and over.

  “I will come with you.”

  We processed to Mass in the chapel at The Vyne with joy in our hearts. Everyone remarked upon it, saying that Henry had never looked so young. Young he might appear, in his joy, but not so was he in body. His legs had caused him constant irritation that summer. Veins had grown large and swollen in them, no doubt because of the extra weight his form was forced to carry. They stood out; hideous, lumpy blue lines coursing over white flesh. At times, when I looked on them in bed, I shuddered.

  Although he made it clear that he adored me, as before when I fell pregnant Henry decided we must separate. “There can be nothing to disturb our child,” he said, gazing at me with faint disapproval, as though I had been the only one who had ever wished to share a bed. “In the past, we have been too eager, too careless. It will not happen again. Our son will be born in perfect health.”

  “We were together in the first months when Elizabeth was within me,” I said. I was not particularly sad to think that Henry and I would not share a bed. His problems with his manhood had abated during the summer, but it was a struggle at times to be together. But at the same time, I did not want little Jane Seymour curled up beside him.

  Jane might pretend to be humble and meek around me, but from what I had heard at Wulfhall, she was clearly duplicitous and sly. I little needed to lose my husband to an enemy. But Henry would not be moved.

  “We will separate,” he said. “Until you are churched. God has shown His approval. I will not risk His ire.”

  And my fears about Jane, were, as I swiftly realised, justified. In addition to her royal knight, Jane had supporters. It was only to be expected. People had flocked to me when I was the most important person in Henry’s life. Now, they went to Jane. They hoped to secure influence and favour, and I had no doubt, many of them hoped to use her to reduce my power too.

  Gertrude Courtenay and Nicholas Carewe supported the Seymours, or at least, would support them until they got what they wanted. Bryan, who was Carewe’s brother-in-law, had joined this motley band and the Poles, along with the Dowager of Kildare were in league with them too. Their aims were clear; they wanted the Lady Mary restored to the succession and less, if any, reform. They wanted the Pope to again be England’s spiritual leader, with Henry as his malleable lapdog, and no more common men like Cromwell taking posts that surely, in a sane world, only nobility should possess.

  Their dislike for the gentry, as Jane was, and for the lower classes, as Cromwell had hailed from, was so obvious that I wondered about this alliance. Cromwell, I believed, was making nice with them as he saw the benefits of keeping communication, even with enemies, open… But what of Jane and her brothers, Thomas and Edward? Had they convinced themselves that all this attention and affection was genuine? Or were they simply looking for a ladder to climb, caring not for the rungs they must use on the way up?

  I did not care for Jane’s new friends, or the way I had heard her speak to Henry. In her own way, this submissive little worm was even more dangerous than the parrot had been.

  And I was not well. Pregnancy, if it suits any poor woman, did not favour me. I became weak, fractious, weary, and depressed. I did not want to hear music, or read books, sure signs of despair, but took instead to staring from the window, thinking of times I had felt my heart sing with joy, knowing I loved and was loved in return.

  Disillusionment is a cold, stark place to dwell.

  “A penny?” asked a voice at my side.

  I turned to see Norris, and my heart leapt in my chest, descending to flutter like a little bird.

  What is wrong with you? I asked myself, blushing as his handsome face turned quizzical. Are you so starved of affection, Anne Boleyn, that the slightest hint may steal your heart from Henry?

  “A penny?” I asked.

  “For your thoughts, Majesty.”r />
  I smiled sadly. “You would use the words of Thomas More to bring comfort to me?” I asked. Although the phrase had been around as long as any could remember, More had popularized it in his book Four Last Things.

  Seeing his face grow disturbed, I went on. “I do not think you would want to hear them, Norris,” I said. “No one wants to hear of sorrow. Courtiers come to my chambers for lively discussion and dance. That is what my people expect from their most happy Queen.”

  “It is the Seymour girl, is it not?” he asked gently, sitting at my side. “You are sad the King has gone to her.”

  “I am sad the King would go to anyone else. Once, he told me I was everything he needed, and I believed him.” My eyes flashed to the window, and behind me, my son’s face looked on in sympathy. “I was a fool.”

  His hand touched mine, and I felt a spark dart through my blood. I looked up, my cheeks warm, to find him gazing on me with the gentlest of expressions. His hawk-ridged nose and high cheekbones caught the shadows and the light. His eyes, which I had always thought blue, I realised now were grey. Golden lights shimmered at their centres, and reflected the colours he saw, transforming into ocean blue, emerald green, or, as he looked at me, dark grey, like a storm upon the tumbling sea.