by Alison Weir
“Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More! For the sake of our son, sir, I beg of you, put them to death. Silence those who have the power to destroy us!”
“It shall be done,” Henry promised. “I can deny the mother of my son nothing.”
—
Two days later, Bishop Fisher was tried at Westminster Hall and condemned to suffer as a traitor. Soon afterward, news came from Rome that Pope Paul had made Fisher a cardinal, and was sending his red hat to England.
“Afore Heaven,” Henry raged, “he shall wear it on his shoulders, for by the time it arrives he shall not have a head to put it on!”
When three more Carthusian priors died bloodily at Tyburn, and there was public outrage at the prospect of the same sentence being meted out to the seventy-six-year-old Fisher, Henry promptly commuted it to beheading. The Bishop died on the scaffold on Tower Hill, and his head was set up on London Bridge as an example to others. On the day he suffered, Anne went to Mass, fighting unexpected feelings of guilt, and ordered her chaplains to offer prayers for the repose of his soul. She did not sleep that night.
The next day, she told herself firmly that the execution had been justified. Fisher had been a dangerous enemy. Smothering her qualms, she ordered a masque to be staged for the King’s pleasure, showing God sitting in Heaven, signifying His approval of the recent executions. Henry sat there beaming, roaring with laughter as he watched himself cutting off the heads of the clergy. Was he laughing a little too loudly? Was he feeling as troubled as she was? She thought not when he told her that she ought to arrange for the masque to be repeated on the Eve of St. Peter, a day on which the Pope had used to be honored in England.
What really chilled her was being told that Fisher’s head had not decayed. Some were calling it a sign of sanctity, which disturbed her even more, because if God approved of the Bishop, then assuredly He could not approve of her. She was heartily relieved therefore to hear that the head had been tipped into the Thames and lost.
—
The announcement that Anne was soon to bear the King a child made all the difference. No one dared slight her now, her opinions counted once more, and her patronage and favor were eagerly sought by all. When Henry’s fool, in an ill-judged jest, cried, “Anne is a ribald, the child is a bastard!” the King was so angry that Anne thought he would kill him, and the fool was obliged to go into hiding.
By late June she was unlacing her gown to accommodate the growing infant, and feeling extraordinarily well. But one morning, while watching Norris play Weston at tennis, she felt nagging twinges of pain in her lower back. When she returned to her apartments for dinner, the pain had seated itself in her womb. It came and went, and steadfastly she tried to ignore it. It was nothing. It would go away soon. But as she stood up, she felt dampness between her legs, and when she moved toward the stool chamber, she was dripping spots of blood on the floor. Soon she was bleeding quite heavily, passing clots, and the cramping pains became severe. Shaking with fear, she screamed, and her women came running.
Shortly afterward she delivered a tiny, perfectly formed dead boy.
—
Henry sat by her bedside, stricken. “Why does God deny me sons?” he cried. His sorrow was harder to bear than the anger he had not displayed.
Anne lay there, too shocked to weep. It had all been so sudden. She made a supreme effort.
“We can try again, Henry,” she said.
“How many times do we have to try?” he flung back. “Many men I know have a whole clutch of sons. I lead a righteous life; I love God; I put away my unlawful wife, so why is that blessing withheld from me?”
“I do not know! I took care of myself, I ate sensibly, exercised carefully, rested. It just happened, and I am so sorry, so very sorry.”
“It is not your fault,” Henry conceded. “But if it were known that you have borne me two dead sons, our enemies would say that God has cursed us, and that this is my punishment for what I have done. I dare not proclaim another failure to the world, so see that your ladies do not speak of it—on pain of my heavy displeasure.” He got up wearily, looking every one of his forty-four years. “I will come to you when you are well.”
She reached out and caught his hand. “Henry, you do not believe that God has cursed us?”
“I no longer know what to believe,” he muttered.
—
On the first day of July, Sir Thomas More was tried for treason in Westminster Hall and condemned to death. Six days later, he was due to mount the scaffold on Tower Hill and die by the ax.
Anne got up early to wait for news with Henry in his privy chamber. She watched him becoming more restless and agitated as the time passed. At nine, the hour appointed for the execution, he summoned his Master of the Cellar, one of his favored opponents, for a game of dice, and they sat down to play. Anne looked on, barely concentrating.
Norris entered and bowed. “Your Grace, Thomas More is dead.”
Henry threw down the dice. The Master of the Cellar bowed his head.
“Did he speak on the scaffold?”
“He declared that he died your Grace’s good servant, but God’s first.”
Henry was trembling. “What have I done?” he asked faintly. “There was an outcry at Fisher’s death; how much louder will the outcry be now? And it won’t just be in England—it will be heard all over Christendom.” Tears were streaming down his face.
“Leave us!” he commanded. Anne made to go, but he caught her wrist. “Stay.”
When the others had left, he rounded on her in fury. “This is because of you!” he shouted. “The most honest man in my kingdom is dead!”
She reeled in the face of his wrath, as great tearing sobs burst forth from him. “And you are also to blame for all the other terrible things that have happened recently in this kingdom!”
That was unfair! “Sir, you are more bound to me than any man can be to a woman,” she countered. “Have I not delivered you from a state of sin? Have I not been the cause of reforming the Church, to your own great profit and that of all the people?”
“You hounded me to have these good men put to death!”
“You were fierce to have them punished!” she retorted.
“Go away!” Henry roared. “The sight of you sickens me.”
—
That month, the King’s commissioners began visiting the monasteries and submitting their reports, which Cromwell was collating in a great book.
In private, in her chamber, Anne confided in George. “I have concerns about this plan to close the monasteries. I’d rather see their wealth used to good purpose.”
“I think the King would see replenishing his coffers as a good purpose,” George observed. “And I’d rather see all monks and nuns rot in Hell.” She knew that at heart he was a Lutheran, and that many thought she was too. Certainly she had become the hope of those who had secretly embraced Luther’s precepts. Men like the firebrand Robert Barnes, who had fled England for fear of persecution, but had been able to return four years ago, thanks to her protection, and preach openly in London, unmolested. Henry had granted her every wish in those days. Even last year he had agreed to release a convicted heretic, and four months ago he had approved the appointment of another reputed Lutheran, Matthew Parker, as her chaplain.
“No one could say I am not a friend to true religion,” she said to George. “I see myself as a zealous defender of Christ’s Gospel. But it seems wrong to use the wealth of the monasteries to buy the support of individuals for the King’s supremacy. I feel strongly that the confiscated riches should be used for educational and charitable purposes that would benefit everyone.”
“And you think the King will agree with that?”
“I’ll do my best to persuade him.” It wouldn’t be easy when he was barely speaking to her.
George snorted. “Cromwell certainly won’t. He would make His Grace rich, and buy himself further into his good graces.”
“Cromwell has too much power,” Ann
e said.
“More than you, I fear.”
“Until I get pregnant again,” she was quick to say.
“You mean there is a chance of your getting pregnant? Anne, I have seen how things stand between you and the King.”
She would not weep. “I can make him return to me, never fear. And then Cromwell had best look to his back, for I will have my way over this!”
“Go to, sister!” George applauded.
—
Laying up treasure in Heaven, and hopefully with Henry, she was now spending her days doing the good deeds that would earn her salvation and increase her store with the Almighty. She gave alms weekly to the poor, with the piles of clothing she had sewn with her ladies. She provided for widows and impoverished householders, giving money for the purchase of cattle or other livestock. Braving those who shouted abuse, she visited towns and villages, sending her almoner ahead to find out from the parish authorities if there were any needy families in the district. When she arrived, she made grants of money toward their support.
She aided poor scholars, providing money for their education. She even helped Wolsey’s bastard son when he returned penniless from the University of Padua. She wrote to King François and secured the release of a French humanist, Nicholas Bourbon, who had been imprisoned for heresy. When Bourbon arrived in England, she made him tutor to her nephew, Henry Carey. Bourbon could not sufficiently express his undying gratitude. “Your Grace is one whom God Himself loves,” he told her. She wished she could believe it. For all her charities and good works, she knew she was still hated.
It was rare for Henry to visit her these days, but when he came to her chamber to tell her that he had at last persuaded King François to enter into negotiations for the marriage of Elizabeth to his son, she was overjoyed and took courage from it, assuring herself that he would not have pressed for the match if he had been planning to divorce her.
But then, relaxing with a book in her privy garden one day, with Urian sleeping at her feet and her ladies chattering and laughing in a circle on the grass, she heard voices beyond the high box hedge behind her.
“It’s the Lady Mary people look to when they consider the future.” That was Cromwell! “The Princess Elizabeth is not yet two, and if anything should happen to the King, Mary would have a far more realistic chance of gaining and holding the throne. I’ve decided that it’s in everyone’s interests if I lend Mary my support.”
“I am gratified to hear that, Master Secretary,” she heard Chapuys reply. “Someone should stand up for the Princess’s rights. Many do not recognize the Lady’s child as legitimate.”
“I’m well aware of that. I’m looking into the possibility of altering the Act of Succession with a view to naming Mary the King’s heir.”
How dare he! This was treason! Anne leapt up, threw down the book, and raced out of the garden. At the sight of her bearing down on them vengefully, both men stared in dismay, then Cromwell hurriedly bowed low and Chapuys walked away without acknowledging her.
“You are a traitor!” she accused Cromwell, shaking with fury. “I will have your head off your shoulders! I heard what you said about supporting the Lady Mary. It’s treason, as you should know, to deny my daughter’s title.”
Cromwell appeared unperturbed. “Madam, as the King’s chief minister, I have to take a pragmatic view. God forfend, but should the King die, a two-year-old girl could not rule.”
“His Grace has provided that, in that event, I should be absolute mistress of the realm during Elizabeth’s minority. You seem to have forgotten that.”
He regarded her dispassionately. “And your Grace thinks that the lords will accept you as regent? Madam, you would not last a quarter of an hour, and I say that as a friend who wishes you well.”
“Is working to have my daughter dispossessed an act of friendship?” she flung at him. “You overreach yourself, Master Secretary. The King shall hear of this!”
He shrugged. “I think you will find that he too will take a pragmatic view. He knows I have this kingdom’s interests at heart.”
“We shall see!” Anne cried, and left him standing there.
She found Henry in his privy chamber, rummaging through his cupboards. A pile of dog leads, tennis balls, and rolled-up maps lay on the floor.
“Wait a moment, Anne,” he said. “I’m looking for a plan of the Calais fortifications. I want to go over and inspect them soon.” He stood up at last, holding a large scroll. “Well?”
She told him what Cromwell had said. “He is a traitor and should be punished as such,” she demanded.
Henry sat down wearily, stroking his beard. “He is the ablest man in my kingdom, and very useful to me. I should be loath to lose him. If he has said these things to Messire Chapuys—”
“If?” she interrupted. “I heard him, as clearly as I hear you!”
“Madam!” His look silenced her. “I am in no doubt that Master Cromwell spoke from an earnest desire to ensure the future security of this realm. After all, you have failed to bear me a son.”
“That was not my fault. And I can’t believe you are turning a deaf ear to his treason.”
“Madam, you are in no position to complain. Now go, and leave me in peace. I have business to attend to.”
She fought back the tears. “How can I give you a son when you never come to my bed?”
“I will come to you later,” Henry said, making it sound more like a threat than a promise.
—
He came, as he had said he would. She tried to be as alluring and welcoming as she could, wearing an almost transparent shift and lying with her long hair spread out over the pillows. He grunted a greeting, took off his robe, climbed into bed still wearing his nightshirt, and did what was necessary to get her with child without one word spoken. After he had lain beside her for a space, recovering his breath, he rose to leave. By then, she had turned away, weeping helplessly, not caring if he heard.
Suddenly she felt his hand on her heaving shoulder. “Anne? I apologize if I was abrupt with you. It may not be your fault that our sons have died, but is it mine? Have I offended God in some way? In faith, I am so angry, so confused, and so frustrated. I am a plain man, and sometimes a rough one.” He sighed. “I wonder what has happened to us. Where we lost each other.”
Anne turned to face him. She sat up in the bed, wiping her eyes. “I thought you blamed me for the loss of our sons, that I had forfeited your love because of it. And when I saw that you loved others, my heart broke.” He must believe that it was her heart, not her pride, that had been wounded.
“You are still my lady,” Henry said, looking at her more tenderly than he had done in months. “I am determined to show the world that I was right to marry you. Pray God this night’s work will bear fruit. I will come to you tomorrow, and again after that, to make sure.” He was actually smiling at her.
Relief flooded through her. She still had power over him!
—
This new kindness between them proved to be no fleeting thing. When Henry went away on his annual progress, to the West Country this year, he took Anne with him. Her presence was important, he said, his purpose not just to get her with child.
“I am determined to see that my reforming policies are being enforced,” he told her. He would be inspecting monasteries, talking to bishops and clergymen, favoring with a visit those who supported his policies, as well as traditionalists whose goodwill he wished to retain. The aim was to rouse support for the coming closure of the religious houses. Cromwell, who was traveling separately, would be ensuring that the King’s laws were being observed and valuing the assets of the monasteries he visited. Anne was to be visibly supporting Henry’s policies.
He was looking forward to the progress. He liked to be seen by his subjects, to bask in his popularity, and to win more by listening to what they had to tell him and redressing their grievances. Above all, he loved the good hunting to be had in this grease season. Anne caught his mood. She was happi
er than she had been in months.
The great procession set off from Windsor, and she rode at Henry’s side. In their wake lumbered a long train of lords, ladies, officials, servants, carts, and sumpter mules bearing the rich furnishings that always accompanied the King when he was on progress.
Late in July, they arrived at Winchcombe in Gloucestershire, where they were to stay at Henry’s castle of Sudeley, in the magnificent apartments built by his great-uncle, Jasper Tudor, Duke of Bedford. Anne sent George and some officers of her household to inspect Hayles Abbey, where there was a famous vial of the Holy Blood—Christ’s own life blood, spilled on the Cross—which people had flocked for centuries to venerate.
“It’s the blood of a duck,” George informed her on their return. “The monks regularly renew it.”
“And they charge pilgrims to see it?” she asked, outraged. “Tell them in my name that they must remove it from public view or face my displeasure.”
George saw that the monks obeyed, but when Henry and Anne were on their way to Tewkesbury, they were annoyed to hear from Cromwell that the vial had been put back.
“Soon they won’t have four walls in which to house it,” Henry growled.
The progress continued. They stayed near Gloucester, at Painswick Manor, then moved on to Berkeley Castle, Thornbury Castle, a fine but unfinished palace confiscated from the late Duke of Buckingham, and Acton Court, where Sir Nicholas Poyntz, a reformist and friend of Cromwell and Tom Wyatt, had built a lavish new lodging, with the latest in antique decoration, especially for their visit.
Early in September, they arrived at Wulfhall, a manor house on the outskirts of Savernake Forest in Wiltshire. It was the residence of Sir John Seymour, Sheriff and Justice of the Peace for Wiltshire, whose daughter Jane was in Anne’s train. She had been proudly telling the other maids about her family seat, which was nowhere near as grand as she had given them to believe.
What Anne saw before her was a substantial timbered manor house. They rode into a cobbled courtyard, where Sir John and his lady were waiting, their strapping sons and pale-faced daughters drawn up in a line behind them, all bowing and curtseying. Henry greeted his host affably, and kissed the hand of Lady Seymour. Then, when Jane had been embraced by her parents, the King and Anne were shown by their effusive host to the comfortable lodgings that had been prepared for them. On the way, Sir John took great pleasure in pointing out the impressive long gallery he had had built, and the tapestry-hung family chapel.