by G Lawrence
I am sure some there thought I was about to be announced as regent. They thought Henry was dead, and we were concealing his demise.
Cromwell was hovering. “In half an hour,” I said. “Go about court and tell everyone that the King is awake and jesting about the accident.”
I did not need to explain myself to Cromwell. If Henry was thought to be gravely injured, there might be immediate problems. Someone might take this chance to rebel, to place Mary on the throne. He bowed, and left to do my bidding.
I turned to my father. “Ensure Elizabeth is safe,” I said. “See to it personally, Father. If anyone decides to seize this moment to set Mary on the throne, we must be ready. Dispatch guards to Hatfield. Tell them to let no one leave and no one enter. If anyone plans to harm my daughter, they will pay dearly for it.”
As my father ran off to order his men, I glanced back at the tent. “You must live,” I murmured to Henry. “England will be mired in war if you do not… And I will be lost without you.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Greenwich Palace
January 1536
I sat by Henry’s bedside. I did not get in the way of his doctors, but I would not leave. My ladies, unable to remonstrate with me, brought my meals to his chamber on the ground floor, which was as far into the palace as we had dared move him. They asked me to rest. I would not.
At first I had only thought of my heart, of the pain and suffering I would endure if he was taken from me, but now I thought on what Henry’s death would mean for England.
Visions of fire and blood and rebellion roamed in my head.
War would come. The babe in my belly was unborn, and none knew what sex it might be. My enemies would not wait another five months to make up their minds. Many of them had never thought me fit for the throne. They wanted Mary. If Henry died, we would see another war such as that between Lancaster and York, in the days of my grandparents. But this time, it would be no shadowy queen such as Margaret of Anjou was to me, struggling to protect her child. It would be me, fighting to uphold the Church of England, hold off Rome, Spain, France and English rebels, and save my children from murder.
I was petrified. Was I strong enough for this? Strong enough to hold England together? To act as regent? Could I protect Elizabeth and my unborn child?
Father informed me when his men were ready, and he sent them to Hatfield with strict instructions to guard the house, but not to allow news to leak out. We did not need Mary’s passionate supporters to take to arms and march to her aid.
Much ran through my head in the hours Henry lay there, unconscious and bleeding. War, famine, struggle, invasion… tortured thoughts, wild visions, everything that could and might go wrong raced in my blood like droplets in a crushing waterfall. There was a torment of noise in my mind; a grating, whirring, mechanical sound, as though bone and blood had been replaced by cogs and gears.
But all the time, there was a voice; a begging, pleading, terrified voice. All it wanted was for Henry to open his eyes.
I had thought many times that I loved him not. I knew, at that awful time, this was false. No matter what he does, I will always love him, I thought. My sorrow was mighty and great. It loomed over me. I stood in shadow, deep and unyielding, and could not find the light of the sun.
“I love you,” I whispered, holding his hand.
“I never knew…” A strangled whisper emerged from Henry’s mouth. I let out a cry and leapt to my feet, astonished and terrified to hear him.
“The King is awake!” I almost screamed at the doctors. They came running, but Henry was not done amazing us.
“I never knew angels were so dark of hair,” he muttered, gazing up with eerie, unfocussed eyes.
A burst of laughter exploded unguarded from my gullet. I leaned on the bed, weak with relief. Henry was not only conscious, he was jesting!
“What does he mean?” asked Butts, looking at my flushed face in confusion.
“It is nothing,” I said, grasping Henry’s hand and squeezing it tight. “It was something he said to me a long time ago, when a similar accident happened.”
The doctors were relieved. I think for a moment they had thought their master was seeing things, or that he was indeed so close to Heaven that he had witnessed the agents of God. But with my words, they sagged.
“I heard you,” Henry whispered, blinking and making as though he meant to sit up. I pushed him down.
“You heard me?”
“Your prayers,” he said. “What has happened, Anne? Everything is so dark.”
He sounded drunk. Words slurred in his throat. I kissed him, tears of happiness running down my cheeks. “There was an accident, my love,” I said. “Your horse fell and you were injured. But I am going to make you better.”
“With your magic, Anne. My Anne...” He smiled and fell into the arms of sleep.
Wiping my eyes, I stood and grinned wanly at the room full of physicians. Never had I seen men look more relieved in all my life. “Tend to him,” I said. As I spoke, the room swayed. Black spots broke out in front of my eyes. Had Butts not caught me, I would have fallen.
“You must rest, my lady,” he said. “The shock of this could be dangerous.”
“I am well,” I said, groping blindly for the chair beside Henry’s bed. “I will stay a while.”
“My lady,” said Mary Howard. “We have prepared a bed in the next chamber. Come now and rest. You will be only a room away, and if the King wakes, you will be roused as quickly there as if you sleep on that chair.”
I allowed them to take me into the next room, but I would not change out of my gown. I wanted to be quickly on hand if I was needed. I fell into sleep as swift as my husband. My hands wrapped tight about my belly, my last words were to our son. “Rest easy, little one,” I murmured. “All will be well.”
*
“You are sure our son is fine?” Henry asked as I sat by his bed feeding him chicken broth laced with saffron and expensive, imported wild rice.
“Our son is strong,” I said. “Fortunately the shock of Norfolk’s message did not do any harm.”
Henry had been told of this by my father, and was furious with my uncle. I could understand his rage. The bumbling ass might well have endangered my baby and me by telling me Henry was dead and we had to make ready for war. What a fool he was! Although a cynical part of me had to wonder if Norfolk had intended to bring harm upon me.
“I will have words with your uncle,” said Henry, taking my hand. “And even with that shock, and your disquiet to see me so ill, you did not leave.”
“I will never leave you,” I said. “Not as long as you have need of me.”
Henry’s eyes clouded with sentiment. “How now,” he said, running a hand gingerly over his leg and wincing. The bleeding veins had been covered by thick, soft bandages of linen, but his wounds were itchy. “I am well,” Henry said, attempting to insert a finger into his dressing.
“Leave that alone,” I scolded, tapping his knuckles with my spoon.
“It itches.”
“That means it is healing.”
I was not sure if I was telling the truth. Whilst Henry had slept, they had dressed his wound again. His legs were frightful. The physicians assured me that this would heal in time, but I had trouble stopping myself retching to see Henry’s legs. The doctors were right, never would he joust again.
Henry sighed and sat back. “What news from court?”
“Only the unbounded relief and joy of all your friends and subjects,” I said, smiling as I took another spoonful of broth to his mouth. “You gave us a scare, my lord, but when you return to court, it will do your heart good to see how happy your people are to see you. They love you with all their hearts.”
“Perhaps it was a fool’s errand to joust,” he said with a grunt after he had swallowed the mouthful of pottage.
“It was an accident, Henry,” I said. “Accidents may befall any man, young or old.”
“I am not old!” he snapped, his eyes irrit
able. Henry was not talented at bearing physical pain or infirmities. They made him feel weak, something he could not endure.
“I simply meant the accident could have happened to anyone, at any time,” I said soothingly. “Think of the joust that claimed Bryan’s eye, my lord. Chance takes us ever by surprise. You will be fit and hale soon, and although, for the sake of my nerves, it would please me if you did not compete again until our son is born, I would not like to think I would never see you on a horse again, riding like Saint George himself; a warrior of God.”
Henry smiled softly. “For you,” he said. “I promise not to compete until our child is born.”
I congratulated myself. Making it seem as though his failure to ride again for some time was for the comfort of a lady appealed to Henry’s sense of chivalry. It would buy time for Butts and the other unfortunate physicians who might have to tell Henry that to compete again could risk his life.
“That would please me,” I said, and then made a face. “I must excuse myself,” I said.
“You are unwell, sweetheart?”
“I must to the privy,” I said, blushing. “Our son leans on my bladder.”
Henry chuckled as I raced off. But it was not urine I needed to pass. Since Henry’s fall, I had suffered from loose stools, almost like passing water. I was sure it was due to the stress of the situation, but it was most vexing. Court gowns were not made to be removed swiftly, and even with my women’s help, I barely got upon the privy in time.
I clutched my belly as I passed the stool. I had been suffering cramps for a few days too. I believed they were in league with my other problems, but something, a little thought that I would not allow purchase on my mind, nagged, whispering that I had felt pain like this before… During a time I never wished to remember.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Greenwich Palace
January 1536
On the day of Katherine’s funeral, I awoke feeling pensive. Henry had been moved to his bedchamber, and there was every reason to feel merry, but I did not.
I was not sure what it was. Perhaps it was Katherine, her ghost coming to haunt me as her voice had once sounded in my mind. Perhaps it was just the release of all the pain and fear I had endured over the past week, or the sapping of my energy from the loose stools and cramps. But I could not seem to point to one event and say, “This is it; the reason I am sad”.
Sadness had simply taken up residence in my heart.
Katherine had lain at Kimbolton for three weeks whilst Cromwell arranged her funeral. Her servants had hunted out scraps of black cloth to wear about their arms for mourning, as it had been said nothing would be provided by the Crown. In actual fact, garments were supplied, but were not dispatched until a few days before the funeral, due to everyone’s focus being on Henry. Katherine’s coffin had been taken by trundling wagon to Sawtry. Placing Katherine under a canopy, the Abbot and his monks prayed for her soul and lit over four hundred candles, illuminating the church with blazing, brilliant light. Mass was celebrated, and forty-eight poor parish members carried candles for her soul.
Then, Katherine had made her last journey. They took her to the Benedictine Abbey of Peterborough, where she was received by the Abbot and the Bishops of Lincoln, Ely and Rochester. The chapel was hung with banners proclaiming her descent from the royal houses of England and Spain. Pennants, bearing Katherine’s arms and her father’s, were displayed, and about the chapel golden letters were hung, spelling out her motto: “Humble and Loyal”.
Loyal, Katherine certainly had been. I am not so sure she honoured the other part of her motto.
Masses were sung, and Katherine’s confessor, Athequa, was allowed to serve as deacon. Sir William Paulet represented Henry, and Suffolk’s daughter, Eleanor, was chief mourner. One of my men, Hilsey, Fisher’s replacement as Bishop of Rochester, preached a sermon against the power of the Pope and the marriage of Katherine and Henry. On her tomb, the arms of Spain and Wales were quartered.
Everything displayed, everything said, all proclaimed that Katherine had never been Queen of England. Her funeral was a pageant, used by Henry to make this clear.
On the same day that these rites were being performed, I rose from my bed and went to Henry. I had been unwell the day before, with more cramps and unpleasant privy experiences, so had stayed away, thinking if this was a sickness, I might pass it to him.
But when I awoke with sorrow, and could not divine the cause, I wanted him. Since his accident, my heart had wound back the hands of time and fallen in love with him all over again. Coming so close to losing him had brought into sharp relief how intrinsic he was to my life.
This was God’s way of showing you how wrong you were, I thought as I dressed. You thought you could leave behind the love you bore for him and become free by doing so. And yet, this is false.
I wished many things were different, and that morning I made up my mind to make what I wanted come true. Henry’s first thoughts had been of me. In the days of his recovery we had nestled close to one another, allowing our hearts to heal in the glow of each other’s love.
I had hope… so why did I feel so sad?
Henry will dispel it, I assured myself. He would take me in his arms and make all things well.
But when I got to his rooms, I found he could not take me in his arms. There was another already occupying that space.
The guards on the door had tried to stop me, but in my usual brash manner, I marched past. Flinging open the door, I was about to make a merry jest, but it died upon my lips.
Henry was out of bed, sitting on a chair. But he was not alone. In his arms was Jane Seymour, her little, pale hand playing with the collar of his nightgown. His arms were around her, and through the sheer fabric of his gown I could see he was aroused.
My stomach lurched. My eyes refused to look away. I swayed in the doorway, and suddenly, without warning, fell to my knees, emitting a horrific howl.
What a fool I was! What a fool to think that this accident might have reached his heart as it had mine! A fool to believe that he might have wished for reconciliation and happiness. A fool to think he needed me as I needed him.
I heard Jane break from his lap and run for the far door. My ladies were in a confused crowd behind me, staring as Jane fled. Henry, flustered, red of face and fumbling, tried to gather his robe about him. I felt hands on my back as my women tried to get me up, but all I could do was kneel, sobbing on the ground.
Henry drove them away and tried to pick me up, but my legs would not work. I stumbled to a chair and stared at him.
“I came to see you,” I said, my voice hard and numb. “I felt low and thought our love would calm me.” A brittle chuckle fell from my lips. “I am the mother of all fools… To think for one moment that a false heart such as yours could possibly feel as mine does.”
“I love you,” he said gruffly.
“Do not defame the name of love,” I snarled. “There is no love in you! How could such virtue and glory live in your festering, rotten heart?”
Henry looked as though he might strike me, and I lifted my face. “Go ahead,” I whispered. “Hit me. There is nothing more you could do to hurt me now.”
He left and my ladies all but dragged me back to my room.
After an hour, the cramps in my abdomen grew worse. Blood started to flow. Small pieces of liver-like tissue started to come with the blood, and as I was taken to bed, screaming and crying out in fear for my child, the doctors and midwifes were sent for. They fed me cinnamon comfits in a syrup of althea, trying to stop the child from coming. They laid me down in my bed, warmed by bedpans, and poured fresh spring water down my throat, followed by ale with shredded purple silk in it, as well as the treads of eighteen eggs and a conserve of red roses. They put toasted bread soaked in muscadine wine upon my stomach, sprinkled with powder of cloves and nutmeg, and bound it to my belly.
Nothing worked.
I had to go through it all again. All again. Like a nightmare… like one
of the flashes I had endured of blood on cloth, of the face of my perfect, dead boy, I had to relive it all. I went through the motions, pushing on contractions and straining against the shoulders and hands of my women, knowing that my child could not live. Knowing that I was about to lose another baby.
Blood came thick and heavy. I was weakened by the flow. The doctors whispered in the corners of my room; they knew a miscarriage at four months was dangerous. Most women, once past the first few months, were past peril. I, in losing my child at four months, might be in danger of my life.
When my child had passed from me, they hastily baptised him, and rushed to stem the bleeding. They fed me infusions of oak bark and leaf, and placed pads soaked in sage and water horehound between my legs. Vervain was hung about the chamber, and sage burned, to remove wandering sickness and dispel evil spirits who might come for me and my child.