Judge The Best

by G Lawrence

  But later, as people began to assemble in Henry’s Privy Chamber, my hope was restored. Edward Seymour escorted Chapuys in, to join Cromwell and Chancellor Audley, who were already in attendance. Chapuys put forth the four proposals that he and Cromwell had woken Henry with, and agreed in his absence. They thought that since he had accepted them so readily that morn, they would be publicly supported by the King.

  Oh, how wrong they were…

  Henry listened quietly, but as the ambassador finished by explaining that all the Emperor wanted was the peace and tranquillity of Christendom, he started to laugh. It was an uncanny sound, devoid of humour. He snapped his fingers at Cromwell. Drawing him to a window seat, he started to berate him, loud enough for all to hear. I looked on as Edward Seymour attempted to engage Chapuys in awkward conversation and Henry rebuked his chief minister.

  He accused Cromwell of overstepping his authority, and forgetting who was King. “Your authority comes from me!” I heard Henry shout. “I told you to maintain cordial relations with Spain, not offer promises in my name! You forget yourself, Cromwell! You would be my master, is that it?”

  I was delighted. Wolsey might have got away with such an audacious move. Cromwell could not. My once-friend was about to find out just what influence meant; favour, or death.

  Cromwell attempted to respond, but Henry shut him down, time and time again. Eventually, Cromwell excused himself. He hastened to the other side of the room where he gulped down two cups of ale, his face feral and pale.

  Henry looked as though he might go after him, but as he crossed the room he made for Chapuys. He sternly informed the ambassador that his issues with Rome were none of the Emperor’s business, and since Mary was his daughter, and England was his country, he would do with both as he saw fit.

  “And as for joining my royal brother in a war against his enemies,” Henry went on, his angry contempt glaring like the noon sun. “It is necessary first for peace and amity to be restored between friends before favours are asked! I shall not put my people to ruinous expense and potential suffering for the restoration of friendship. The Emperor has worked much ill against me, lord ambassador. It is up to him to make peace with me!”

  Henry went on to tell Chapuys he was not a child to be struck with a stick and then played with as a friend. He mocked Chapuys, acting out a little game with his fingers. It was strange, wild behaviour. Everyone stared. This was a side of their King they had not seen, or only witnessed in short spurts. He seemed deranged.

  Henry demanded that the Emperor accept me and Elizabeth in writing, for the world to see. Chapuys attempted to calm him, but he got nowhere. Henry launched into a list of all the trials he had faced because of the Emperor. He abused his royal cousin, saying that Charles had failed him in the past when he betrayed him after his victory at Pavia, and had proved a poor friend and ally numerous times.

  Even I was shocked. I was not sure what had got into Henry. He was like a man possessed. But as I watched, I saw him leaning slightly to one side. His leg was vexing him, and this, added to his rage at Cromwell, was making him so full of wrath that he knew not what to do with it.

  Chapuys tried to say that the past was in the past, and could not be undone, but this only encouraged Henry to dig up more wrongs. He looked about, seeking support, but everyone was staring at him in dumb disbelief.

  He looked insane. Henry truly looked as though he had lost his mind.

  Eventually, he agreed to look over the proposals again, and the ambassador made a hasty escape, closely followed by Cromwell. Cromwell was hardly able to speak. Everyone could see he was terrified.

  Outside the chamber, George heard the two men. Chapuys advised Cromwell to leave well alone. Their focus should switch, the ambassador said, to selecting a suitable husband for Mary. My brother did not catch Cromwell’s response, but he could hear his mortified uncertainty, a strained, desperate note in his tone.

  Cromwell left court. I did not sorrow. If he knew what was good for him he would cease to play me at this game. I thought I had won. I thought I had bested him.

  I was wrong. I did not know that Cromwell would take that time to work against me.

  Nor did I know I had only one month to live.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Greenwich Palace

  April 1536

  Chapuys and Cromwell were not the only ones to come under fire from Henry’s wrath. The French Ambassador received a generous helping of Henry’s frustration later that same day, and Henry wrote to François, insisting he abandon his pursuit of Mary and accept Elizabeth.

  As the humiliated ambassador departed, I found myself satisfied that finally my husband was standing up to his rivals, and at the same time, oddly disturbed.

  Henry was acting in a most erratic manner. I could understand the sense in playing both sides, but the way in which he accosted the various ambassadors was striking in its ferocity. His leg pained him, and I understood that was why his temper was so changeable, but had he not been becoming harder for me to read over the past few years without injury playing a part?

  In truth, Henry was taxing even those who had known him his whole life. No one knew what he might do.

  But for the moment, I was pleased. Henry was fighting for Elizabeth’s rights, and he had crushed Cromwell into submission. When Cranmer wrote to Cromwell, saying he was troubled about what the dissolution of the lesser houses would do for the poor, I was infused with new confidence. Cranmer had stood firm behind Cromwell for many years. To have him question the chief minister now, when he was vulnerable, would only enforce the fact that without my support Cromwell’s position was precarious. The Church and her leaders were on my side, and although my allies were few and far between, those who stood with me were strong in Henry’s love and favour. I was also assured that the people of England would soon know I was on their side; the side of cautious, careful reform.

  I insisted that if any rapprochement were to be made with Spain, Charles would have to accept the supremacy, the succession, Elizabeth and me. Henry agreed wholeheartedly. No more would we talk about peace with Rome. No more would we accept people questioning Henry’s right to his title. If foreign princes desired England’s friendship they would have to accept us as we were; one kingdom, one state, one spirit, ruled by Henry.

  Since Henry agreed with me, Cromwell swiftly understood his foreign policy was in peril. He was willing to compromise Henry’s position and his sanctions on Mary in order to gain alliance. We were not.

  Cromwell could not see England had the upper hand at that moment, and we had to use it. He feared to leave England alone in the vast oceans of the world. Perhaps he had a point, but since France and Spain were clamouring for our affection, Henry and I believed we should use this. Politics change overnight, and when a country finds itself in a position of authority, that should always be used to the best advantage.

  When Cromwell returned to court, he was found in the company of arch-conservatives; the Courtenays, the Poles and Nicholas Carewe. He also seemed rather friendly with the Seymours. But I was not overly concerned. Henry and I were aligned in policy and passion, and as I supported him he turned to me like a flower opening her petals to the sun.

  Henry needed me. I was never more assured of that fact than in those first days of April. He fed from my strength and courage, and although we did not see eye to eye on the closures of the monasteries, we were united in purpose.

  Or so I thought.

  I did not see what was coming. I did not note Henry’s opposition to much I said about the monasteries or his wavering fear about foreign policy. I thought he was with me, that we were as solid in purpose as we were in heart.

  I did not see. I was blind… Caught up in Henry’s love and my own battle plans, I was oblivious.

  My enemies were working in secret.

  I had not yet learned to grow eyes in the back of my head.

  *

  “I am worried for my son,” Henry said as we dined.

&nb
sp; I glanced up. Henry’s plate was full, yet he had touched nothing. For my husband to shy from food was a rare event. As some men seek out drink when they experience any emotion, happy or sad, Henry turned to food.

  Fitzroy was ailing. Consumption, the curse that had carried away many male Tudors, had come for him. His lungs were weak. He hacked up phlegm, sometimes laced with blood, and was pale and thin. None dared say it, but the young Duke of Richmond was fading fast.

  I took Henry’s hand. “Doctor Butts is the best physician I have ever known,” I said. “He is lately back at court after tending to my beloved mother. He made her well again. Send him to the Duke.” I saw terror in his eyes, barely hidden in his sea-blue spheres. “And study your old books of physic, my lord,” I said. “For you know more than many doctors. If there is a cure you will find it.”

  “Perhaps after the meeting of the Order of the Garter I should send him to the coast. They say sea air is beneficial for those who suffer complaints of the lungs.”

  “A good notion,” I said. “And you could tell your son that you want him to inspect your ships and defences. That way he will not think he is being sent as an invalid.”

  Henry brightened. “Aye,” he said. “The lad does not like anyone to note his troubles.”

  “He emulates his father,” I said. “I remember when you were thrown from your horse many years ago, and, although you had a face full of splinters, you rode six more matches to assure your nervous people you were hale.” I smiled at Henry and was greeted by one in return. “Your son is the same. He has all your courage, Henry, and your noble pride.”

  “I like the idea of sending him with a mission. But I would not want him to exhaust himself.”

  “Arrange his visit ahead of time,” I suggested, warming to the subject. “Talk to your men on the docks. You know they will do anything for you. Ask them to stagger his visits, the paperwork, and his trips onto the ships. That way he will have plenty to keep him occupied, but not enough to exhaust him, and he will not suspect that this is done for the benefit of his health alone.”

  “You think of everything,” he said. “At times, your mind is so devious, Anne, I wonder what other secrets you keep.”

  “With you alone, my lord, do I have no cause to hide,” I replied. “With others, for sake of security and policy, I often have to mask my true intentions, but not with you.”

  This was not entirely true, especially of the past few years, but Henry and I seemed to be entering a time where honesty was indeed the better policy. I had held nothing back about the monasteries and I believed he respected me for it. The days when he had tried to mould me into his perfect ideal of a Queen seemed behind us. I believed he had accepted me for who I was, in return for me turning, at least some of the time, if he was careful, a blind eye to his affairs.

  It was a strange compromise. An odd, unfair deal, for he gained all as I lost much. But I was willing to make it, for the sake of peace, and to retain part of the great love we had fought for.

  I felt I was becoming my true self; the amalgamation of the Queen and Anne Boleyn. I understood my power now, and I drew on it. There was a new strength inside me, a new courage. At that time, I was more at peace with myself than I had ever been. I knew how to survive. I understood what was expected of me, and believed Henry respected me for the woman I had become. I was starting to reconcile myself to the twin aspects of my character, starting to understand the light and the darkness within. But I had forgotten someone. The broken one. So long had she been lost in the darkness that she had slipped my mind.

  *

  The annual meeting of the Order of the Garter took place on the 23rd of April. A vacancy had arisen, and I had put George forward as a candidate. To my chagrin, Henry had explained before the meeting that he could not support this.

  “I promised François that the next vacancy would go to Nicholas Carewe,” he told me. “Your brother will have the next slot, I swear it.”

  Many people took this as a sign that the Boleyns were out of favour, but since Henry was with me all the time, I knew not why they thought this. Perhaps it is but wishful thinking, I thought as I watched Henry leave for the meeting. They see what they want to see.

  They, obviously, were not alone.

  There was much I should have seen, and failed to.

  As Henry and his knights met at Greenwich to discuss Carewe’s appointment, I had a chance encounter of my own. There was a gathering of Henry’s men, who, without their master requiring them that day, wanted to spend time with my ladies. My women were always ready to have handsome gallants in their company and the gathering was merry and bright.

  As Brereton regaled me with another tale of his wild adventures on the Irish Sea, I noted Weston flirting with Mary Shelton. “Master Weston,” I said, beckoning him over. “I desire that you would spend less time attempting to engage my cousin and her attention. Mary is betrothed to Norris now, and as such it is not fitting that she spend so much time with other men.”

  Weston smiled, for he saw I was partly teasing him. “I show attention to the lady, Majesty, for she is sadly neglected by her future husband.”

  I frowned. That much was true. Norris had asked for Mary’s hand and her father had given permission, but he did not seem overly rushed to make her his wife. Others were keen, not only Weston but Tom, too. He had recently written a poem for Mary, included in the book of poetical warfare, wherein the first letter from each stanza spelt out Sheltun, when extracted. Once, he had written a similar poem for me, speaking of how I was constant, never-changeable and true. In this one for Mary, he wrote how he suffered without her love and wanted her to ease his pain. Mary had written a reply underneath, rejecting him, and signed it. So she had many admirers, but her future husband was not the most ardent amongst them.

  “It is true there has been a delay,” I said. “I wonder why Norris would tarry? Mary is a beautiful girl, and a clever one. They would make a handsome couple.”

  A little strike of pain flashed into my heart for the thought of Norris married. Foolishness, Anne, I told myself. Would you keep him to yourself for your idle fancy for him, never allowing him to know happiness with others?

  A part of my heart said it wanted just that; for Norris to remain unwed, and therefore somehow mine.

  “Norris comes more to your chamber for Your Grace than he does for Mary,” said Weston with an impish grin.

  I attempted to ignore that comment, yet I could not deny it brought a burst of sunshine to my heart. “Are you in love with Mary yourself, Weston?” I asked. “Do you not love your wife, Anne Pickering? She has lately granted you a son. Is that not all a man could ask?”

  “I love one in your household better than both.”

  “And who is that?”

  “It is yourself,” said the cheeky young man, making me laugh.

  “Hush now,” I said. “Your love is like the love of all young men who would charm women into their power. You shall not catch me, Weston. I am old to all your tricks.”

  “You could never be anything but young and glorious to me, madam.”

  “Then your eyes fade in the pursuit of the glittering fiction you seek,” I said. “Or your flattery tricks your mind into flights of fancy.”

  “It is not so,” said he. “I am in possession of all my senses, and each and every one tells me you are the brightest star in the skies of court.”

  I rolled my eyes at Brereton. “What is a lady to do, my lord, when men let loose lies with such careless ease from their mouths?”

  “Young Weston says nothing that is not true,” said the old rogue. “I am daily dazzled by Your Majesty, sometimes so greatly that I stumble down dark stairs upon being removed from your brilliance.”

  “A conspiracy!” I laughed. “You all unite against me, then?” I emitted a dramatic sigh. “If I am to believe myself a normal woman again, I must seek Cromwell out, for he does not see me bathed in the glorious radiance you are all bemused by.”

  They
laughed. This kind of battle went on every day, between many men and women.

  “And here let this end,” I said as Weston opened his mouth. “Speak no more, gentlemen. I will lose sight of all that is real if I dwell in your sweet fantasies.”

  The music played on. The dance resumed. We drank and we laughed. We moved between parties, trading quips and jests.

  This was what we did. It was what everyone did. Men flattered women with more years, power and money, and gained a step up the ladder of court in doing so. We female patrons were marked out by such attentions, gaining fame and acclaim for the courtly love of our worshippers.

  It was life. It was courtly love. It was how we whiled away dull hours, and how we structured the world in which we lived.

  It was nothing. Nothing.

  And yet to someone, it would become everything.