by G Lawrence
Cromwell nodded. “I have ordered arrests,” he said. “But we must be on our guard. If any would turn to revolt, we must be prepared.”
Henry paled. “Think you it would come to that?” he asked with wonder. “That my subjects would rise against me?”
Cromwell nodded slightly. “There are always those who would listen to the devil on their shoulder,” he said carefully. “But rest assured, Majesty, I shall root out any canker in your realm. Traitorous actions, words or deeds will be silenced.”
“It is Katherine and her daughter,” I spat angrily. “They spread division and unrest.”
Henry nodded. “The lady Katherine is a proud, stubborn woman of very high courage. If she took it into her head to take up her daughter’s part, she could easily muster a great array, and engage in war against me as fierce as any her mother ever waged in Spain.”
“She would not dare to raise English men against an English king,” I said.
“The majority stands true to Your Majesty,” said Cromwell smoothly. “English men and women are loyal. They will not follow the Dowager in pursuit of a crown for Lady Mary.” He paused, his eyes flickering from me to Henry. “Give me time to root out the evil in this land, but allow your hearts to feel no mercy, and we will bring an end to this dissent.”
“The people must accept the new order,” Henry said. “And when our son is born they will truly understand we do God’s work.” He touched my belly as though it were a talisman against evil.
“Yes,” I said covering Henry’s huge hand with my own. “Once our son is here, the people will see the true path. Our son will blaze a trail for the men and women of England.” I looked at Henry. “Why not send a delegation to the Schmalkalden League again, my lord?” I asked. “Perhaps England’s people fear that we have no friends.”
“We could send a delegation to Wittenberg,” said Cromwell.
“Speak to Alexander Aless,” I said to Henry. “He has a good understanding of the German Princes.”
Henry frowned, but agreed to send envoys. As Cromwell left, he bowed to Henry and me, and to my belly.
Inside me was the hope of England. That December, I was careful. I ate what I was told. I drank what was instructed. I spent time reading devotions, thanking God for His blessings, and asking my ladies to do the same. I became quiet, introspective.
I was not the young, spirited girl who first came to this court, who thought of little but her dresses and opinions. As we grow older we find that life is made of more compromises than we ever would have thought possible when fired by the passion of youth.
Youth is uncompromising, adventurous, and brash. Age is concessionary, careful and cautious.
We do not care about the enemies we make when young. Now… I could count them like grains of sand on a beach.
I slipped often into thinking of the past. Perhaps it is only natural. When we are young we look to the future. When we grow older, we think back, for we have more past than future.
Elizabeth came to court, and I spent almost every day with her. Henry had been distant and angry of late, but with the arrival of our daughter, he seemed to soften.
“You are the best of mothers,” he said, his tone defensive and grudging as we sat in the gardens, watching Elizabeth play with little stones on the path.
“I would never claim such a thing,” I said. “But if the best of motherhood lies in love, I will accept your compliment.” I touched my belly; a soft, small lump was starting to form under my clothes. “For there is no one in the world I love as I do my children.”
“Do you love me, still?” he asked.
“You think I do not?”
Henry looked away. “You busy yourself with other men,” he said gruffly. “You act as though you care not.”
My soul cried out at this unjust accusation. Had Henry not sought other women? Acted as though he cared nothing for me? It is so easy to take our sins and place them on others. Was this another of Henry’s tricks? Trying to blame me for all that was sick in our relationship?
“I busy myself with others because you desert me,” I said. “You left me, Henry.”
He looked away, his hands becoming fists at his sides.
“Should you come back, and respect me as a husband should his wife, I would have no cause to seek companionship elsewhere.” I stared at him. “You were all I ever needed, Henry. If only I could have been that to you.”
He seemed angry and comforted at the same time. “Men require different companionship, from time to time,” he said. “Katherine understood.”
“Katherine did not love you,” I said, unsure if that were actually true or not. “And so she could look the other way with ease. Her heart was safe because she never offered it to you. Mine is not.”
More anger in his hunched shoulders. Henry liked to imagine the whole world adored him, no matter the evidence to the contrary. “Yet still,” he said. “You have flocks of admirers.”
“Courtly love is not love,” I retorted. “You know that well enough. Men praise me, but they seek patronage, not pleasure.” I turned to him. “With you, it was not so. The love you offered me was true, for once you held your heart out, and begged me to keep it safe. I would have held your heart forever in my hands, Henry, and never seen it come to harm. It was not me that removed that heart from my hands. It was you.”
“My heart is in your keeping,” he said gruffly. “And always shall it be.”
He rose abruptly and went to our daughter. Gathering her up, he put his face close to hers, and she giggled as his short beard brushed her peach-soft skin. Elizabeth set her small, chubby hands to his face and nuzzled against him. As he turned, our daughter in his arms, I saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. But whether my husband was moved by the sweetness of his daughter, or by our conversation, I knew not. Once I could have read Henry as easily as the English Bible. Now, I never knew what might come from his heart, or his mouth, to either comfort or crush me.
Somehow, Henry always seemed to know when I had grown strong. In our arguments, threatening me with abandonment, or telling me I was not a proper queen, he could reduce me to nothingness. But I rose. Like the falcon who wings through stormy skies, I rose time and time again to stand strong. And that was when he would bring out his second weapon; love. Henry used love against me, reducing me, diminishing me, until I was rendered weak.
It was a powerful combination, and souls stronger than mine had been crushed by it. It was abuse of emotion, abuse of love. Henry wanted to control me. As his wife, he thought it was his right to be my master, and he had learned how to exert authority over me. Just as a man may seek to defeat a woman by beating her, Henry thrashed me with emotion. Shame… Misery… Fear… and the hope and comfort of love. Those were Henry’s weapons.
But I was quick to his tricks now. I could not deny that he still had the power to bring me low, but reduce me again, he would not. If this was the game I had to play, if I was trapped on this board, I would be the Queen. Never again would I allow myself to be someone’s pawn.
That was what I told myself. I had found the second kind of power. I had sipped from it, nibbled it, finding strength within myself. But I was not yet filled by it. I was not yet complete.
I rose and went to my family. Hesitantly, Henry offered me his arm. I took it and we walked through the snowy gardens, chattering away to Elizabeth. Her words were few, but she was far advanced compared to many children her age. Everyone remarked on it.
As we turned a corner and Henry burst out laughing at one of my jests, I saw Jane Seymour talking to Cromwell. They looked up, and Cromwell made a hasty excuse, scurrying away.
Although that day made me happy, for Henry and I had made a peace, of sorts, I was haunted by Cromwell’s frightened eyes. Why had he not wanted to be seen talking to Jane? I could only think of one reason.
Cromwell wanted to use her against me. Jane, such a blank canvas, might well be used to whisper in her royal lover’s ear, promoting Cromwell’s cause abo
ve mine.
But Cromwell did not know everything. He did not know Henry was annoyed about his talent for surpassing his authority. He thought his royal master was firmly in the palm of his hands. He was about to find this was untrue.
Chapter Forty-Three
Eltham Palace and Richmond Palace
December 1535
When not at court that winter, my daughter was housed at Eltham Palace. On a visit, I went the chapel to pray for Elizabeth with my ladies. As we went to leave, Margaret Lee noted that Lady Mary, who had been behind us, had dipped her skirts and acknowledged me before retiring.
“She curtseyed and had her ladies do so likewise, I would swear it, my lady,” said Margaret, breathless with excitement. “I think she seeks to make amends.”
I was astounded. Nothing had allowed me to think Mary might be softening. I had made many gestures, and every one had been rebuffed. But her mother was ill. Perhaps, knowing this and knowing too that I carried a child, had made her more aware of her precarious situation. In some ways I had sympathy. I, too, understood that life does not always work out as expected.
“Take a message to her,” I said to Margaret. “Tell her I am distressed that I failed to see her bowing to me. Say also that I am heartened by her homage and hope to act as an agent for friendly correspondence between her and her father. Tell her this is an office I would embrace willingly and warmly.”
Margaret went to do my bidding and when she returned, she came to Elizabeth’s chambers. I did not note her arrival for a moment, as I was playing with the fastening of a new purple cap for my daughter. Lady Bryan and I had gone over the garment in particular detail, as we did with all of Elizabeth’s sumptuous clothing. The cap had made many trips back and forth between court and my daughter’s household, but no matter what, it never seemed right.
Finally, I had the style just right. The pretty cap was plumed with delicate white feathers, which fell across Elizabeth’s face and tickled her nose. She played with it as Lady Bryan and I smiled to see how interested my little girl was with pretty fabrics.
“Her mother’s daughter,” said Lady Bryan, her eyes glowing with affection.
No royal child had ever been as beautifully dressed as my Elizabeth. If I could not be with her every moment of the day, I could surround her body and encase her skin in all the care my hands and purse could afford. I hoped she could feel my love warming her through these clothes.
Margaret stood near the door, hesitancy flowing from her. She was struggling to work out how to not give offence.
“What did she say?” I asked and sighed. “I can see it is not something you wish to relay. Fear not. You are not accountable for the words and deeds of others.”
Margaret spread her hands, as though seeking absolution from the Almighty. “I gave her your message, Majesty, and she said the Queen could not possibly have sent that message as she was so far from this place. She said I should have referred to you as Madame la Marquis, and the curtsey she had made had been to God her Maker, not to her father’s mistress.” Margaret paused as my face darkened. “I am sorry, Your Majesty,” she hurried on. “This is my fault. I mistook her intention. I have caused this schism.”
I almost laughed. Poor Margaret! How could she have caused this rift, so deep and wide that none could ford it?
“None of this is your fault,” I said, struggling to keep a hold on both my temper and my laughter. I was assaulted by a mangled mess of the two much of the time. “Lady Mary is at fault, not you.” I expelled a fraught breath. “She is a stupid girl filled with wanton fancies, and she will unmake herself, perhaps unto death if she does not take care.”
Lady Bryan’s face tumbled to hear Mary abused. Mary had been her first charge and she was fond of the girl. Lady Shelton also looked on with disapproval. We were not as intimate as we had been. And all for this girl… this child who sulked and stomped through her idle days, refusing to accept that the pristine world in which she had once lived had altered. I was running out of patience. It was time for Mary to grow up.
“Your Majesty…” Lady Bryan said “… please offer mercy. She does not mean to insult Your Majesty.”
I rolled my eyes. “If all this is an accident, Lady Bryan, then the King’s bastard should take more care. It is dangerous to be so clumsy.”
“Of course, my lady, but…”
“I want her books taken from her,” I said, cutting in. “All but the Bible and she is to have no additional privileges.”
Lady Bryan looked at me sadly. “She has none now, Your Majesty. We have not allowed her to hear private Mass, she eats with the servants in the hall and I have expelled those who would call her by her old title, or speak of the Dowager. She is only allowed to write to her mother if her letters are inspected, and every day she serves the Princess… But we will continue to carry out your commands until the girl starts to pay the respects expected of her.”
“See that you do,” I said imperiously. “I want regular reports on her insolent behaviour, so I can show her father what a nuisance this cursed bastard has become. When my son is born she will have to accept her place. Then, she will be begging for the help that I offer her freely now.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lady Bryan said, sweeping sad eyes to the floor as she curtseyed.
I left Eltham with rage bellowing in my heart. Mary was a constant, irritating symbol of dissention. She was showing the common people and nobles that they could flout us and survive. Mary and her stubborn mother were little sparks that could kindle a mighty fire. She had power, and she knew it. If it were up to me, I would have had her arrested already. Perhaps a few weeks in the Tower would show her who was truly in charge. But whilst Henry wavered between love and hate for her, there was no such option.
Mary stood, her spark as bright as the flint’s first flame… even as Katherine steadily started to fade.
*
“I have a task for you,” said my husband, marching into my chambers as I dressed. Henry never cared for formality when he wanted something.
We had come to Richmond two days ago. It was not one of my favourite palaces. For so long it had been the seat of Lady Mary that I seemed to hear her voice as well as Katherine’s everywhere I went.
Once, Richmond had been known as Sheen Palace; a royal manor of the Yorkist and Lancastrian kings, inherited from their Norman and Angevian forbears. Henry’s father had torn down the old palace and replaced it with a new one, rich with towers, turrets, a grand great hall, and gracious dwellings. There was a vast chapel, privy gardens, a close gallery and the palace had running water, with pipes pumping in water from a conduit in the fields nearby. Henry had plans to install flushing privies, as he had in Hampton Court, for he would never miss the opportunity to outdo his dead father, even if the man could no more marvel at his accomplishments.
“What is this task?” I asked, gazing at Henry in the mirror as he stood behind me. The two Janes were combing my raven hair, and the light from the windows fell, shimmering emerald green and sapphire blue upon the black patina of my hair. They stepped aside as Henry took a tress in his hands and passed it through his huge fingers.
“Like silk,” he murmured.
I smiled at his unabashed admiration, glad that Jane Seymour was present to witness it. No one had hair like mine. Most women at court were golden or fair of hair, portly in figure and plump of cheek. My black hair, even under my gorgeous hoods and veils, shone out, setting me apart. The same was true of my lithe figure, sharp cheekbones and wide, black eyes. When I stood beside the women of court, I was a stately, graceful raven amongst a horde of golden, twittering starlings.
But the years had taken a toll. I had never been conventionally good looking. I was no wide-eyed doe. The toil of bearing children, the sorrow of their deaths and Henry’s lack of care had worn my beauty. But my hair and eyes never faded. If my cheeks sometimes seemed hollow and my figure over-thin, at least I had my greatest assets to fall back on. Besides, no other woman could match m
y ready wit.
“You have mislaid your purpose,” I teased, smiling at his reflection as he stared at my hair.
“I was lost in contemplation of your beauty.” Henry smiled and took a seat on a stool beside me. “I want you to go to Syon Abbey.”
I lifted my eyebrows. Syon had had many visitors of late. Cromwell had sent his men early that month to investigate the house, and had called personally on the nuns and monks in early December. He had been followed a week later by my chaplain, John Skip, and my ally Doctor Butts. The very next day four academics went to Syon along with Lord Windsor, who had a sister there. The next Thursday, the Bishop of London had gone too.
These visitors were united in purpose; to compel the order to accept the supremacy, swear the oath and submit to Henry.
Syon was home to the Bridgettine Order, and was named for the Biblical City of Zion, the City of David. It was one of England’s wealthiest abbeys, with a huge library, boasting enviable collections. The Bridgettine Order had been founded from the Order of St Augustine, and their holy saint was a visionary who had once seen a vision of the Holy Christ displaying his wounds. The Order were devoted to the Passions of the Christ and the honour of the Virgin Mary, and had been brought to England during the reign of Henry V, who had laid Syon’s foundation stone. Nuns and monks dwelled separately, with an abbess ruling the sisters and an abbot the brothers, but since the Order was dedicated to a female saint, the Abbess had as much, if not more, influence than her counterpart. Agnes Jordan was the present Abbess, and she, along with her Order, had proved resistant to the supremacy. Some had come out in support of Henry as Head of the Church, others had not. They who had not were the most vocal, causing problems for us.