Fatal Throne: The Wives of Henry VIII Tell All

by M. T. Anderson

  “In my opinion you got off too easily,” Lady Boleyn says as her basket falls onto the floor. Her awl rolls halfway across the room and pins scatter everywhere. Mrs. Coffin, whose chin, quite ironically, is shaped like that of a horse, immediately tidies up the mess. “You disgraced our family with that ridiculous Henry Percy affair,” Lady Boleyn scoffs. “What woeful years those were for the family Boleyn. Your sister, Mary, was King Henry’s mistress, and you were an upstart. It sickens me to remember all the dishonour you and your sister brought to us.”

  “Well, then you should remember that banishment was not my sole punishment. To further put me in my place, rumours were constructed—that I was a French snake with venom and fangs, not to be trusted. Devilish and grotesque, I had six fingers on one hand. Utter nonsense, but juicy and delicious gossip….” I remove my gloves and hold up both hands. “As you can see, seulement dix.”

  This elicits laughter from Mary Orchard, Mrs. Stonor, and even Lady Shelton.

  “Fine, but what has any of this to do with your being accused of adultery and locked in the Tower?” Lady Kingston asks.

  “I think it will become clear,” I say. “Where was I?”

  “You had been banished from court,” Mrs. Coffin reminds me. She does pay attention to my every word. And she also knits a fine pair of woollen stockings.

  I smile at her. “Thank you. I was finally granted permission to return to court in the summer of 1525. And for whatever reason, perhaps because the rumours made me an intrigue, I found myself in the unenviable position of having the King’s attention.”

  Mrs. Stonor stares at me as if I am an ungrateful child. “Most ladies at court would be thrilled to have the King’s attention.”

  “King Henry had a wife his people loved.” I rummage through my basket and find the perfect button to sew at the little skirt’s waist. “I had been in enough courts to know that it never works out well for the mistress of the monarch. Katharine, the Queen I was bound to serve, would despise me. And selfishly, I wanted a husband with whom I could have legitimate children, not bastards.

  “I tried everything I could to dissuade His Majesty,” I continue. “Yet every action I took to escape his advances was misinterpreted. If I returned his gifts, people called me manipulative. If I ignored him, they said I tormented the King and toyed with his affections. If I spoke to him, I did so out of selfish ambition. Mean Anne Boleyn, the conniving serpente française. I had been back little more than six months when I felt forced to leave court a second time.”

  “I think you bend the truth,” Lady Shelton says as she pricks and pounces a needlework pattern onto her embroidery. “You chose to return to Hever Castle—and a lady gets a reputation because she earns it.”

  I laugh. “I wish that were true! But sometimes, when the truth is not as dramatic as the rumour, it gets altered. And that’s exactly what happened, God be my witness.” I apply beeswax and thread my smaller finishing needle. “I admit it’s a thrilling tale: The French whore slaps and insults people in Katharine’s court. Evil Anne Boleyn tempts the King, flaunts herself in Queen Katharine’s face, and acts in every manner vicious and cruel.”

  “If what people said about you was wrong,” Lady Shelton sneers, “then why did you not correct them?”

  “Dear Lady Shelton, who would have believed me? There’s no use contradicting the story of record. My version’s not nearly as amusing. Henry and his court prefer a good myth to a boring truth.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Boleyn chuckles. I’ve never heard my aunt laugh when it wasn’t with malice.

  I drop my needle, then prick my finger retrieving it. “Putain!” It stings. The ladies look at me, horrified that I know such a word. “I will admit something of which I am very ashamed.”

  They all lean in, so close that I can smell their teeth.

  I lower my voice. “While I returned home the second time, I caught the sweating sickness and nearly died. In my fevers, I often prayed that I would succumb to it, because I thought death a better fate than to sleep with the King.”

  Mrs. Stonor sets down her sewing abruptly. “That’s a sin against not only His Majesty but God!”

  I nod. “Yes. And when I recovered I felt dreadful for ever having thought it. I knew that Henry genuinely cared for me. If I could read you the letters we wrote each other that summer—so poetic and romantic! The truth was, we had fallen deeply in love. And I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “It was obvious to all that you had great passion for one another in those early years,” Lady Boleyn admits. “But it was an immoral love and hurt Queen Katharine.”

  My face reddens, and my hands become fists. “Yes, there was Katharine. Even though she could bear no more children by then, and Henry could no longer bear Katharine, it is I, Anne Boleyn, who was blamed for everything. As if I caused all problems! As if Henry’s need for a son were my invention!”

  “You should have been content to be his mistress,” Lady Shelton says simply. “But you are selfish and cruel. The King would have arranged a marriage for you after he tired of you, as he did for Bessie Blount.”

  I spool my unused thread, quickly at first, but then with less furore. “Yes, but that was not what the King wanted. He wanted a legitimate son. He already had a bastard, Henry FitzRoy. The idea to divorce Katharine, and the way in which to do it, came not from me.”

  “Whether or not it was your idea, His Majesty severed England from the Catholic Church in order to marry you, and our country has been shattered!” Lady Boleyn holds her needle as if she might take out her rage on the embroidery.

  “You’re wrong.”

  The ladies glare at me. It has been an undisputed fact that my marriage to Henry caused the break between him—along with all of England—and Rome. The people call me the Whore of All Christendom. The Concubine. The Evil Mistress!

  I take a deep breath before I say, “Queen Katharine chose to sever the Church from England.”

  “Outrageous! How dare you say such a thing!” Lady Boleyn cries.

  “Henry and the Pope asked Katharine many times to annul her marriage, and every time she refused. All she had to do was say their marriage was invalid and become the Princess Dowager, and England would have remained a Catholic nation. She refused! Katharine forced Henry to break with the Church. If he wanted to marry again and have a male heir, there was no other choice.”

  Lady Boleyn stamps her foot. “You should have refused.”

  “I should have refused King Henry the Eighth?” I cry, and it echoes through the chamber.

  All the spiders cease stitching.

  Lady Shelton stares at me a full minute before she twists her dull knife into my gut. “But after all that, you gave the King no male heir.”

  “True,” I say. “I failed the King in many ways, but most of all, in that.”

  Quiet tears fall onto the little girl’s skirt that covers my lap. Still unfinished, the skirt collects my pain like a napkin—soaks up everything untidy, that it might disappear and be forgotten.

  I pray for the soul of my son,

  The heir I promised, the one

  To prove my place, then none

  Could doubt, could Queen Anne shun.

  5 MAY 1536

  The Tower of London

  The Queen’s Lodgings

  Lord Chancellor Cromwell always wears a look as if he smells something foul. Age has not been good to Thomas. Perhaps punishing people on the rack does that to a man, gnaws off anything beautiful or vibrant he once possessed, leaving him like pickings for the dogs. Thomas Cromwell helped seat me on the throne, and now he intends to snatch it out from under me.

  He scuffles into my chambers and surveys the room. “Hardly a prison cell Your Grace is confined to.”

  I make no response.

  “Sir William informs me that you have questions.”

  “Right to business, Lord Cromwell. You don’t even wish to know how I fare?” I tease. “Well, I suppose you know that already, don’t you?” I
shake my head, then ask, “Might we be alone?”

  “Very well.” He waves his hand and dismisses my attendants before I even have time to adjust my gloves.

  I can’t decide if I should sit or remain standing. I elect to stand. “I know it is you, Lord Cromwell, who conspired to put me in the Tower.” I pause for him to react, but he stares blankly at my headpiece instead of meeting my eyes.

  “And I believe I know from whom you have support.” I step closer to him. “I pity you, Thomas. Only a desperate man asks for help from his enemies.”

  “I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace,” Lord Cromwell says without sarcasm. “But perhaps you should reserve your pity for yourself. It is you, not I, who is a prisoner.”

  I laugh. “Oh, you think you’re not a prisoner?”

  “Madam, I haven’t time for this.” He starts for the door.

  I block his path. “I wonder why you must destroy me. Why not just send me away, as with Katharine?”

  Lord Cromwell makes no answer. He taps his toe, impatient to leave.

  But I have no intention of letting him go yet. I suspect that Katharine’s daughter, Mary, and the Seymours are aiding Cromwell in his plot against me, and I want him to confirm it. “Why would the supporters of Lady Mary and Jane Seymour align with you?” I ask. “They know that it was you who turned Henry away from the Pope so he could marry me. They know you fought with vigour to destroy Katharine. Why would they ever forgive you for that?” I seek his eyes. “Is your shared hatred for me so intense that it alone binds you all?”

  Lord Cromwell responds slowly. “Your Grace is in the Tower because of no conspiracy, but because of your vile and treasonous crimes against His Majesty.”

  I wag my finger in reprimand. “We both know that’s not true.”

  “I did not want to believe that you could commit such crimes against our King,” Lord Cromwell continues. “But I cannot argue with evidence. And now I expect that you and the men you took as lovers will be punished to the full extent of the law and put to death.”

  My fists would like to beat Lord Cromwell until he screams for mercy, but to show anger now would be weakness. “I do not doubt that, sir, for you are a soulless man. At first I wondered why you would destroy the lives of five innocent men, and not just mine. And then I realized that this scheme of yours works best if those who might defend me are implicated as well. I can only imagine what false evidence was presented to the King.”

  Our eyes meet. I widen my gaze with an aim to peer inside his skull. The man cannot handle more than ten seconds of direct scrutiny. He looks down, looks away.

  “I can answer none of this.” He tries to push past me.

  I grab his arm and clench it as I would the mane of an unbroken horse. “La faute est le vôtre! All fault lies with you, Lord Cromwell! His Majesty is innocent in all of this, as are the noble men who stand accused beside me. I pray for you, Thomas. You, more than anyone else, require great redemption for your sins.”

  “Good day, madam,” Lord Cromwell says, then wrestles free of my grasp and is gone. But he leaves behind a sour stench that lingers.

  What vanity draws one to the crown,

  Round which vultures do abound?

  It’s never safe, no truth be found,

  They vanquish love to knock me down.

  6 MAY 1536

  The Tower of London

  The Queen’s Lodgings

  All my thoughts today are of the King. I am flooded with memories of Henry and me. How could one who loved me so dearly allow me to be locked in the Tower? Mon Henri, je ne comprends pas.

  When we were first married, the very sky above us proclaimed our love with thunderous applause. On that first trip to France together, our most successful trip to Calais when Francis, the King of France, publicly accepted me as your new Queen, violent storms held us weeks past our scheduled return to England. And that’s when we became man and wife.

  “Anne,” you whispered as we strolled through the grounds of your French palace. You pulled me to your side. Rain fell in sheets like windows of glass. It soaked my hair and muddied my velvet gown. “Do you trust me?” I nodded and you covered my face with your hands and said, “Close your eyes; I will lead you.”

  I shut my eyes against the rain and took your hand. We walked for what must have been nearly a mile, over slippery moss and uneven rocks, but you held me securely.

  I smelled the horses before we reached the stables. Under the cover of that meager wooden structure, we shook off our top layer of rain. The thunder of God’s fierce whip cracked above us, followed by lightning like veins of fireworks. I trembled from the wet and the cold, and something deeper, too.

  You wrapped a blanket, which had been hanging over one of the stalls, around my shoulders. “It’s not elegant, but we are finally truly alone,” you said.

  I nodded and tried to stop my teeth from chattering. You slowly rubbed warmth into my hands and feet. We watched the storm in total silence.

  Then you pulled from your pocket that exquisite rope of rare black pearls. I remembered immediately the same piece of jewellery having been on Katharine’s chest. I knew exactly what you were giving me, the necklace passed down through centuries of English queens. “I want to see how it looks on you,” you said.

  I turned to the side so you could fasten it around my neck.

  “No, Anne.” You shook your head. “I want to see how it, alone, looks on the Queen.”

  And perhaps I should have hesitated, but I didn’t. I could feel every part of my body completely at the same time, powerfully alive and alert. I felt as if I had swallowed the lightning. I wanted you more than I knew was possible. We had waited almost seven years. I nearly ripped off my dress.

  Elizabeth may have been conceived not in the royal bed, but in a stable small and meek.

  We had adjoining bedchambers in our house in Calais, yet there was always some attendant sniffing around us. But after the night of the black pearls, we found ways to sneak into each other’s rooms. The stormy weather made for lots of time in bed. We feasted on each other like owls in a field of mice.

  You were anxious to be married at the first sign that I might be pregnant. But I knew it was important that we say vows in England, not France. So as soon as our ship was safe at shore, we held our small, secret ceremony in a country church. We promised ourselves to each other until death do us part.

  * * *

  —

  Little did I know that marriage to you would be more a parting of two lovers than a union. I believed that the love we shared was unique, transcendent. But eventually, I became just your second wife.

  The first nine months, while I was pregnant with what we were certain was a son, you continued to shower me with love and affection. But I was no longer your playmate or confidante, no longer your equal. I became like a porcelain vase—precious, but weak.

  You made clear to me my new position during the pheasant hunt in 1533.

  Before dawn lit up the fields of Hampton Court, everything stood still. The day waited like a church bell to be rung. I fed my horse, Midas, three carrots for good luck, then advised the Master of the Horse how to adjust my saddle while I selected the perfect rifle. I was determined to be the one who killed the first pheasant, the victor, as I had been two years prior.

  The Queen’s stables lay on the far side of the palace, so when Midas and I trotted out to join you, most of your party was already assembled.

  All talking ceased. You looked at me with horror. “Anne! What are you doing? Get down from that horse now!”

  My cheeks flushed at the sternness in your voice. “But today is the pheasant hunt.”

  You quickly waved the others away so we could speak alone. Softer now, you helped me off Midas. “My dear, you cannot think you would come with us?”

  “But we have always opened the season together, my love. I’m a better marksman than three-quarters of your men.”

  You smiled and patted the ever-growi
ng bump beneath my gown. “The Queen has matters of far more importance now.” Your next words were directed to my belly. “Hello, Prince of England! Tell your mother that she must think of you and your safety, not her own vain needs and rewards.”

  “That was not what I was—”

  You kissed my forehead gently. “I know, my sweet. But do remember that the first role of the Queen is to be the mother of princes.”

  I nodded.

  “I will see you at tonight’s banquet.” You mounted your horse as I turned Midas to return him to his stall.

  You looked over your shoulder and called, “Wish me luck, wife! I intend to be the victor today!”

  I tried to sound cheerful as I replied, “You will ever be the victor, dear Henry. The Prince and I send you luck and glory.”

  * * *

  —

  But after four pregnancies, I failed to provide you a son. I was no better than Katharine. I thought the roles of amour and wife were not so dissimilar, that a clever woman could be both at once. But for you a woman was either a mistress or a Queen. One you loved and flattered, the other you ordered about, expecting her to obey.

  I don’t want to believe that one who once loved me so much could be part of this, but I have never known the King to be anyone’s fool. If I am in the Tower, you must want me here, Henry. Je dis ça, je dis rien. To say this is to state the obvious.

  6 MAY 1536

  Dear Henry,

  I am at a loss for exactly what to say to you. I find myself in the most unlikely place, so much in your disfavour that I am a prisoner in the Tower. You request that I confess and thereby obtain my safety. But I don’t know what Your Majesty desires me to confess.

  I cannot profess a sin that I never even considered, let alone committed. You couldn’t have a more loyal and loving wife. I could stand before God and Your Majesty and assure you that I never faltered in my duties. You chose me to be your Queen, which was more than I ever deserved or desired. If Your Grace ever found me worthy, please don’t let the lies of my enemies persuade you that I am anything but your dutiful wife. Don’t let them tarnish my name or that of our daughter, the Princess Elizabeth.