“But Francis is my friend!” My hands are shaking, my knees trembling from outrage. “How could he do this?”
“Shh.” Henry reaches out for me, takes my hand and pulls me to his side. “There are no friends in politics, Sweetheart, you know that.”
His pinched nostrils betray that his annoyance is only just contained, but he is not as hurt, not as offended by the snub as I am. George turns his back and begins to pour wine into three vessels. He hands a cup to Henry first and then passes one to me. I shake my head, and he places it carefully on the table in the ring of the candle’s light.
“We can only assume that since he prefers to negotiate for Mary’s hand, he sees her claim to the throne as the greater. This makes him our enemy.”
Henry waggles my arm. “Not necessarily, Sweetheart, perhaps he prefers to negotiate for a grown woman rather than an infant.”
“A bastard!” I almost spit the word, immediately regretting it when hurt spreads across Henry’s face like a stain.
“But Mary is my ‘bastard,’ don’t forget.”
His voice is quiet as he withdraws his hand and pretends to pick at a loose thread on his sleeve. I know I have made a mistake, but sometimes it is impossible to keep everything inside. Sometimes I have to speak out and I want to scream truths, no matter how painful or distasteful they are.
Having just one daughter terrifies me. How can one weak girl stand against a world so hostile to women? Married to France, Elizabeth would have powerful allies, strong defences against Spain, who is our enemy. If the Dauphin weds Mary it will strengthen her claim, reinforce her cause.
We cannot let that happen.
I can only hope that the furore in France just now will keep their king’s mind on more pressing matters. Across the Channel, the church reforms are not going smoothly and every week we hear reports of burnings and mutilations, and rumours reach us that the country is on the brink of disarray. King Francis will have his hands full. I hope he will forget about Mary.
Not that the situation is much better here in England. There is a new Pope in Rome, one in whom we had placed much confidence, but he has shattered all our hopes by upholding Catherine’s claim and declaring our marriage illegal. That snub is so great that Henry, not troubling to disguise his anger, goes wild with fury and sends for Cromwell.
A light cough tells us of his arrival and we turn as one. Simply the presence of Master Cromwell has a calming effect. He enquires politely as to our health, suggests that I sit down on the most comfortable chair. His eyes linger a little too long on my waist and I know he is already surmising if I am yet with child. Henry, sitting opposite me at the hearth, clears his throat, puts a hand on each knee and leans forward, launching into a tirade against the Pope.
“And what is to be done about it, Cromwell, my friend? You tell me that.”
And of course, Thomas Cromwell, who is as wily as he is willing, has the answer we require. As a result, Henry is now Supreme Head of the Church in England and, in addition to that, Cromwell hurries a law through Parliament making non-recognition of that fact treason. The penalty for denying Henry his title as Supreme Leader of the Church in England is now death. It has all happened so quickly and the resolution to our predicament, one that has confounded everyone for years, is simple to Cromwell. With one sweep he dispenses with Rome and with Catherine, but of course, we know that even now there will be consequences, and those who refuse to accept it.
I move to stand at the window, kneel on the seat and look up at the black night skies. The clouds pass across the moon, a sudden gust of wind sends arid leaves fluttering to the ground, and I am suddenly cold.
My skin retracts, the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end, and the voices of the men shrink to a murmur as I wrap my arms about my body and shudder at what I fear is to come.
May 1535- Whitehall
So many people have been put to death. Why can they not accept it? Why can they not just sign? First it is the Carthusian monks, seven in all; among them Newdigate, Exmew, Middlemore … A few weeks since they were merely names on a slip of paper, but now they are felons, traitors, martyrs to their fallacious cause.
The people mutter against us, picking up the cry of Elizabeth Barton, a traitorous nun whom Cromwell hung last year. She railed against us, decrying our marriage, denouncing our heir, and she named Henry as King Mouldwarp from ancient prophecy, whose miserable reign was destined to divide and bring down the kingdom.
She is dead now but as fast as Cromwell rids us of one rebel another appears, and among these latest foes is one of Henry’s former friends.
Sebastian Newdigate is, or was, a former privy councillor. He was wise enough to sign the act of supremacy, but now refuses to acknowledge Henry as Head of the Church. Henry, sick to the stomach at the betrayal of his friend, visits him in Marshalsea prison, and later at the Tower to beg him to reconsider.
He refuses.
What else can we do?
There cannot be one rule for one man, and one for another.
Treason is treason.
There is nothing to be done.
Henry simmers with suppressed rage. He wants to be the beloved of his people; his whole life has been dedicated to nurturing his image as a golden renaissance prince. Instead, he is hated; we are both hated. He is Mouldwarp, and I have become Salome.
How did this happen?
Instead of the threat of capital punishment encouraging people to sign, it seems to strengthen their resolve to defy us, but we cannot back down. Next it is Fisher, a man whom Henry loved and looked up to in his youth for his wisdom and learning. A friend of Erasmus and More, Fisher is a good man … but misguided all the same. From the early days he has despised me, and despised reform, seeing in it the certain destruction of the Holy Church in Rome.
Why are these wise men so blind?
We don’t want to destroy the Church.
We want to make it better, fairer, more accessible. But I never thought so many people would have to die.
June 1535 – Richmond
Henry is sitting by the window, his head in his hands. When he hears me enter, he looks up, his face bleak. “Anne …”
Encouraged by his welcome I move forward and perch on his knee, the attendants melting away into the darkness. I lean against him, tug his beard playfully, trying to cheer him, but he stills my hand and says in a small voice, “Cromwell was here, Anne. He says that More must die. There is no option …” His words break on a sob, and I slide from his knee to the floor and lay my head in his lap.
“Why don’t you see him, Henry? Speak to him. He may listen to you, he loves you so much.”
He pulls off my veil and his hand falls lightly on my hair. “Does he?”
I look up at him. “Of course he does. It is only his intractable religion and his affection for Catherine that makes him act against you.”
Both More and Fisher have proved immovable when it comes to Catherine. When in my company, they are coldly polite but hostile. Or perhaps I should say they were hostile.
I keep forgetting that Bishop Fisher is dead and More is shortly to follow.
Soon, we will leave all this horror behind us and embark upon a summer progress. I have persuaded Henry to travel west, that we may inspect the reforms Cromwell has implemented there. We embark from Windsor, through Reading and onto Oxfordshire, and then to one of my favourite Gloucestershire houses, Sudeley Castle. We then plan to travel down through Wiltshire and Hampshire, to South Hampton, calling at Winchester on the way and, after a short stay in Portsmouth, journey back toward London. This should give Henry ample time to recover from recent upsets, and Cromwell, who plans to split his time between riding with us and continuing his investigations into the lesser monasteries, can bear the brunt of the responsibility.
Cromwell has temporarily become the power in the land, the hand that wields the knife to trim the diseased shoots from the Church. There is so much waste, so much corruption in these monastic institu
tions. I had never expected it to be so bad, but some of the stories that come to our ears make me weep indeed. Stories of corruption, immorality—and to think that these … these people, supposedly devout and pious monks and nuns, seek to conceal their nefarious deeds beneath holy robes. Henry and I are determined to root them out, sort the good from the bad, the wheat from the chaff, and close down those foundations that are no better than houses of ill-repute.
***
“I will wear the purple, Jane.” Purple is the colour of royalty and power and I wish to look my best as I face the public, and ride through the country over which I am queen. I will show them I am no Salome. I will smile upon them, throw them purses of silver to help them feed their children and pay their taxes. After this progress they will no longer speak of me as Anne the whore. I will become Anne the Benefactor.
Just as Jane lays the gown on the bed and I slip from my shift, the door opens and George enters. As I snatch up a sheet to conceal my nakedness, Jane squeals and throws a cushion at him, which he catches skilfully and slides into a chair.
“It’s all right. I won’t look,” he says, screwing his eyes tight and grinning inanely.
The cool fresh linen slides over my arms, and Jane, who is fuming inwardly, begins to tie it at the neck. The other Jane, the Seymour girl, brings a selection of shoes and hats and I pick my favourites.
“You can pack the others. The men will be here shortly to take the boxes to the carts.” She bobs a curtsey and scurries off to do my bidding. “Are you ready, George? The king wishes to leave promptly.”
As I lean over to pick up a slipper, the neck of my shift gapes wide. George flushes and tears his eyes from the fleeting glimpse of my breasts. When I straighten up, his wife begins to lace me into my bodice, pushing my bosom high, squeezing my waist tight. Then the sleeves are tied in place, the contrasting colours of my undergarments drawn through the slashes. As she works, Jane’s eyes are averted, her jaw clenched. I can tell she is angry. She always is when George is with me.
When my girdle chain is fastened, I pick up my pomander. “I will join the king now. You two follow on after.”
As I sweep from the room and the doors close behind me, the monotone of Jane’s nagging follows me along the passage. I wonder how George bears it.
The king is waiting, the horses growing restless in the yard. His face lights up when he sees me and he tightens his reins. The grooms help me mount and as I settle myself in the saddle, I let Henry have the full force of my smile. I am Queen of England, Henry’s wife. I am looking my very best and we have weeks of pleasure ahead of us.
The progress will keep us from London for the whole of the summer. By the time I see it again the leaves will be falling, the evenings growing darker and the sun lower in the sky. I plan to make the most of the ensuing weeks.
Even in London, which so far has been eager for Church reform, the crowds stand sullen in the rain. George tries to explain that they are sick of the suffering, of witnessing the public destruction of formerly great men, and as we ride by I cannot help but hear their mutterings of discontent. But when we reach the countryside and travel through villages and hamlets where news from London is slow to arrive, children run from their hovels to cheer us on our way. I toss them a purse, laugh to see them scrabble in the puddles, fighting over the coin.
“God bless Your Majesties!” someone calls, and I raise my gloved hand and salute their loyalty. As I do so the shower resumes, sending a scattering of raindrops across my face. I wrinkle my nose and George rides up alongside.
“Why don’t you call for your litter and escape the shower?”
I shake my head. “No, George. The rain isn’t much and the people need to see me if they are to learn to love me.” I throw more coin, the cheers rise, and Henry bobs along ahead, the feather on his cap looking more like a drowned hen with each passing minute.
I’ve a mind to stop at Hook Norton, a property recently recovered from Henry Brandon, who has so displeased his king with his continuing support of Catherine. On a fine morning we set out from Langley Castle, en route to Sudeley, our hawks on our wrists, the hounds running free.
It is a rare dry morning in a wet month, and at the top of a rise we look down on the property nestled in a fold of the hills. Brandon, who owns it, claims to have renovated and improved it, but from what I can see of it, it is a dreary place, surrounded by trees, and I can tell from my vantage place that it will be chilly and damp. There is also a scarcity of game, although Suffolk claims the parkland to be well-stuffed with red deer.
I decide I don’t want it.
Henry will have to let it rot.
Disappointed in the hunt, we reach Sudeley without the hoped-for meat for the kitchens. Even so, the retainers who have ridden ahead of our party manage to provide a royal feast. We are well received, the best apartments have been aired and cleaned, and we are entertained by the finest minstrels and players.
I love Sudeley Castle. It has a certain peace, an almost spiritual calm. The gardens are full of sprawling wet roses and vines and their scent, together with the lavender and lilac, make it smell like Heaven. The trickling fountains, the mossy seats, evoke memories of Hever and the joys of home. We should visit here more often, bring Elizabeth I decide as, our arms linked, Henry and I glide along the honey-coloured paths.
We can forget things here, we can be ourselves; Henry and Anne, not the king and queen, not Mouldwarp and Salome. Our bodies relax, our smiles are more spontaneous, and that night the passion returns to our marriage bed.
I wake in the morning, roll over and groan at the ache in my limbs. Groping for my shift, lost in the night among the covers, I notice the bruises left by Henry’s mouth on my thigh. What will my ladies have to say about that, I wonder? Smiling to myself, I fumble for and make use of the pot from beneath the bed.
Henry opens one eye and I smile good morning from my inelegant throne.
“Come here.” He lifts his arm and I slide beneath it. His fingers walk across my belly until my breast sits neatly in his palm. His lips shift to my neck, just where it meets my shoulder, and shivers consume me. I close my eyes, let my head roll back, giving access, giving him permission. He props himself on his hands, rearing above me. He smells of sex and sweat, and last night’s supper; his beard is damp from kissing me and his blue eyes are full of intent. I part my legs and lick my lips like a trollop, welcoming him home.
It is so different from the first time; so different from the months following the loss of our son. This time, just as he was last night, he is certain. Cousin Madge is forgotten.
“You are a witch, Madam,” he whispers, the rhythm of our movements stirring the bed hangings, the ropes twanging and stretching beneath us. “You have bewitched me with your wicked wiles.”
This is Henry’s favourite bed-time game. He pretends I am a bad woman, or a witch, or sometimes a little girl. I have no need of such games myself but if it gets me a son, I welcome any invention that pleases him.
“I am indeed,” I cry as he rolls over onto his back, clamping me to him. I am aloft, my thighs straining across his loins. “I am Hecate, and you are under my spell, powerful under my control.”
Riding him like a horse we gallop on, my nails scoring his flesh, my hair running like black snakes across my naked breasts. Henry grows rigid, I ride harder, my own pleasure mounting, pinching and scratching until, all of a sudden, he sits up, grabs me and smothers my face in his golden-furred chest. He bellows in my ear as we peak together, his groans, coarse and loud, mingling with my own kitten-like mews, his fingers tangled in my hair. He falls back on the pillows with his mouth agape and I slump forward, my breasts dangling in his face. “Anne,” he gasps, “Anne, I swear you will be the death of me.”
While Henry sneaks off to make his peace with God, I take a bath. Jane must notice the bruises, but she has the grace not to remark on them. I am tired and happier than I have been for a long time. If I can get Henry to make love to me like that more often,
I will soon be with child. The need for a prince is never far away, even at my happiest times when I am dancing or riding through the woods with the hunt; the thought of a boy child hovers in the back of my mind.
After Mass, I watch Henry and George play tennis. They are close matched and it is a humid day. The rain outside is intermittent, but there is no air and soon both men are sweating. From the gallery I watch, not really minding who wins but knowing from experience that Henry will expect my cheers to be only for him. During the interval he mops his face with a large kerchief and scans the crowd, knowing he will find me in its midst. I wave and blow him a kiss, which he pretends to catch. He holds the imprisoned kiss to his lips and we both laugh. Even at this distance we are together.
“I swear you and the king are closer than you’ve ever been before.” Nan takes a chair beside me, which Jane has recently vacated. “It does my heart good to see it.”
To my surprise I find myself blushing, and in a sudden rush of affection I cover her hand with mine. “We are very happy, Nan, and I have every hope that soon we will be happier still.”
She turns to me, her face pink with curiosity. “Do you mean …?”
I shake my head. “Not yet, but I am sure to be soon. The king keeps me … very busy.”
“Busy? I am surprised he has the energy for tennis.” Her dancing eyes belie the disapproval of her words and we are still laughing when Jane returns. As usual, she is looking disgruntled about something.
“What is so funny?” she asks, hurt to have missed a joke.
“Nothing, just a silly trifle, not worth repeating,” I say, but as the tennis resumes I have to concentrate hard on the ball as it bounces back and forth about the court, for laughter is still rumbling in my belly and I cannot risk looking at Nan again for fear of bursting out afresh.
He seeks me out after the match. “I heard you cheering,” he says, like a schoolboy showing off in front of his mother. His snow-white shirt clings to a torso damp with sweat, the open lacing at his neck revealing a tangle of wet red hair. I want to twirl those curls in my fingers, lick the sweat from my fingertips. It is hard to tear my eyes away.
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 21