I waited for him to say that he’d survived. When he didn’t, all I could say was, ‘I should have been there.’ Because no one should have to die alone, away from loved ones. Who knows what pain and terror that little dog felt in his final moments. And where was I? Where was the one person he’d have wanted? ‘Why didn’t they call me?’
‘They were—’ he bit his lip, ‘scared.’ And I saw it, I saw why Henry was here: they’d asked him to break the news.
Pixie was so small. So small; and so young. A baby. I covered my face with my hands and cried. Henry came over, held me, rocked me. After a while, he spoke into my hair: ‘Shall I stay?’
There was something too rigid in the way he held me. I pulled away from him, drying my eyes, wiping my nose, to say I’d be fine.
I suppose it was inevitable: by February, he had a new woman. That it was Meg was supposed to soften the blow. My brother had had a hand in this: pushing Meg forwards, getting her noticed, making her available. Keeping her sweet. He regarded it as a smart move; I was obliged to be grateful. Better the devil you know, was the reasoning.
Certainly I knew Meg, and knew she was no kind of devil. Anything but. More importantly, she was on our side. Even more importantly, she was in love, I suspected, with Harry Norris. She was discreet, too. Which helped. Problem was, not everyone was so decorous. Franky Weston, for instance: suddenly, he was all over her. He’s young, I reminded myself. Didn’t have to remind myself, it was so obvious. I comforted myself, He has a lot to learn.
Franky’s deference to Meg was only the start of it. I soon found I couldn’t be as accommodating as I’d hoped. I hated the set-up. Couldn’t stop myself hating it. And was that so unreasonable? Henry should have been repairing our relationship, shouldn’t he? I knew I was being difficult—George was always saying, He can’t get near you—but it wouldn’t have killed him to try, would it? To try harder. To make the first move, or meet me halfway or even a little over halfway. Instead of spending his afternoons in bed with my cousin.
De Brion’s secretary paid us a visit, around this time, but there was still no word in response to my proposal. I badgered Henry to push the issue, but he seemed unbothered. I began to feel as if, in his eyes, I didn’t exist. And in everyone else’s, I did and I didn’t. I was watched—I was sure of it—but avoided. Soon, it was that way even with myself: I seemed both invisible and too visible; my skin, ghostly—I was sleeping poorly, hearing the chimes of two, three, four—but my eyes and lips prominent, swollen, fissured.
My respite was you, Elizabeth; my visiting you. Because I could, for a change: I wasn’t pregnant; the journey wasn’t difficult. I lived for those visits, that winter. Do you remember being held up in Lady Bryan’s arms as I arrived? Do you remember the muffled protests of snow beneath our boots, out in the gardens? Will you remember? I bet you remember Pixie.
Sometimes I’d think of Henry asking. ‘Where’s Anne?’ and getting the answer, ‘With your daughter.’
Your daughter: remember?
Your wife, with your daughter.
He paid his own visits to you, of course, amid a lot of show. Above all, he’s good at show. Lady Bryan told me that when he brought the Venetian ambassador to see you, he stripped you. Literally showed you off: My perfect little girl, the image of her father.
Unlike the other one. Mary, apparently, was wasting away. Her mother wrote twice to Henry, pleading to be allowed to go to her, to nurse her. Twice, she was refused. Henry’s way of saying, See? I, too, can be stubborn.
That spring, Tom was busy making arrangements for the audit of every single religious establishment. No more piecemeal investigations: they’d all be under scrutiny, now, as to what they believed and practised, and how they supported themselves. And if they didn’t support themselves…well, that’d be it, for them. Tom had the bit between his teeth; he relished this new task. I was less sure, which led to a few quarrels. I’m a reformer, I want people to see the error of their ways. To educate them, not eradicate them.
It’s not that I’m a soft touch. It was on my orders that Hailes Abbey’s phial of blood—supposedly Christ’s, miraculously liquid—was opened and examined, that summer, and found to be duck’s blood, presumably regularly replenished by the monks. It was me who went to Syon Abbey, later that year, to talk tough to the nuns. How could they recite prayers in a language incomprehensible to them? That’s what I wanted to know. How could that be communication with God? How could it not matter to them what they were saying? Ranks of sour-faced nuns. It’d been much the same with the Hailes Abbey blood: was I thanked for exposing the scam? No, I was ignored; the phial re-filled, the pilgrims’ visits resumed. Before I left Syon Abbey, I gave every nun a copy of the prayer book in English. Learn what it is that you’re saying, I told them. Or don’t say it at all.
Some people, though, are uneducable because they’re determined to be so. For them, I have less than no time. In May, time was up—and believe me, they’d had more than enough of it—for Houghton, who was Prior of the London Charterhouse, and four of the most outspoken Carthusian monks. It wasn’t their beliefs they died for. No one has died for his or her beliefs while I’ve been queen. This wasn’t about God. It was about me; Henry and me. They were vocal in their denial of Henry’s supremacy: he wasn’t the Head of the Church, and I wasn’t his wife. These men set themselves above Henry, denying his word. Who were they, to do that? Were they kings? This wasn’t religion; this was politics. And dirty tricks. One of them announced that Henry had had an affair with my mother. For that, and the rest of their bad-mouthing and frenzy-whipping, they died at Tyburn. Tom arranged the full whack: they were dragged there, strung up, cut down, revived to watch their own castration, these non-men. Disembowelled, they were cut into quarters, the more pieces to display around London.
Dad, George and my uncle went along to watch, and took Fitz with them. I suspect Fitz didn’t feel able to say no: he, who already wasn’t much of a man. I suspect he went because he couldn’t do much by that time and he was doing what felt like his duty: witnessing his father’s detractors die. I only found out when I noticed Maria looking even more worried than usual.
‘Fitz is really poorly,’ she said, when I questioned her. ‘I think it was a long day for him, the other day.’
‘The other day?’
She lowered her gaze. ‘Tyburn.’
As soon as I’d established how he’d come to be there, I went to take issue with one of the guilty party. The first culprit I came across was my uncle. I hailed him down a passageway with, ‘Don’t you ever think?’
He stopped, turned, and raised one eyebrow.
‘Taking Fitz to Tyburn!’
He walked slowly towards me. Up close, he went for a sarcastic, ‘That’s something you’d rather people didn’t see?’
‘Fitz is delicate. Didn’t you think what you were putting him through?’
He made a small show of stepping back, folding his arms, inclining his head. Regarding me with his usual unpleasant smile. ‘What’s this sudden concern for one of the king’s other children?’ The smile sharpened. ‘What are you putting Mary through?’
It surprised me—this sudden, apparent loyalty to the po-faced bastard-daughter—but it didn’t throw me. ‘Not enough,’ I said, immediately. ‘Not nearly enough. I’d send that little martyr to Tyburn, if I could.’
He laughed to himself, shook his head. ‘You are wicked, aren’t you.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m human. I’m not a hypocrite. Whereas you: you’d have any of us up there on the end of a rope if it suited you. Any of us. We’re all just pieces of meat to you. You’ve no loyalty. No heart, no soul. It’s you who’s the piece of meat. Bred to—well, to what?—to walk around these corridors, doing whatever it is that you do. What is it that you do? What is the point of you?’ I said, ‘It won’t be me who meets the sticky end, will it. Because I’m queen. You, though: you should remember what happened to Stafford. No one’s above Henry’s wrath. Especially not an ar
rogant little prick like you.’ And with that, I was off.
From the way in which Henry strode into my Privy Chamber, a few hours later, I could see I was in trouble. But then again, when wasn’t I?
He launched in, without preliminaries and in front of everyone. ‘Did you call Norfolk an arrogant little prick?’
I fought the urge to smirk; it was wonderful to hear it said by a purple-faced king. ‘Well, he is,’ I said. I knew very well that my brother, turned aside, was smirking.
‘No, he isn’t. He’s a respected elder nobleman.’
‘He’s a weaselly old bastard,’ I protested, ‘and, anyway, I’m queen. Why are you defending my uncle before me?’
Henry stood there, hands on hips, and yelled, ‘You don’t behave like a queen.’
‘You mean I don’t simper? Listen,’ I bellowed back, ‘you knew I wasn’t meek and mild when you married me. And you liked it that way, if I remember rightly.’
‘Well, those days are well and truly over.’
That stung.
‘I assumed,’ he went on, ‘that you’d learn to be queenly. When you got what you wanted. When you got where you wanted. I assumed you’d calm down and grow up. You were a clever girl, Anne; you know? Such a clever girl. I lived to hear what you had to say; did you know that? But now? Well, you’ve nothing to say, have you, that isn’t some carping-on about someone.’
I stood, now; leapt from my chair. ‘That’s not true. You don’t listen to me. When do you ever listen to me, nowadays?’ I heard an intake of breath from my brother, or someone.
‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘that’s because I have to spend all my time listening to complaints about you.’
‘No, you don’t. That’s the point: you don’t have to listen to them. Why don’t you just tell them to fuck off? Have you ever considered that you don’t behave much like a king?’
I knew, even as I said it, that I was going too far. There was a silence, in which he glared at me. I doubt he was lost for words; I suspect he simply wanted me to feel the full heat of that glare. Then, before turning and going, he briefly closed his eyes; and murmured, as if to himself, but of course loudly enough for me and everyone else to hear, ‘When will this ever end?’
He did still listen to me on some subjects. On some people. Fisher, for one: Bishop Fisher. For how much longer, I was always asking, could Fisher reside in the Tower at our expense? It was obvious that he wasn’t going to recant, to accept the situation. Red hat or no red hat, he fancied himself as the Pope’s representative over here. I had no sympathy for him. Why should I? He’d see me dead.
He went to trial, that June, while Henry and I were at Hanworth. The verdict was guilty. There was nothing Henry could do, then, even if he’d wanted to. Oh, except spare him hanging, drawing, quartering, for the axe. No Tyburn for Fisher. Instead, the more decorous Tower Hill. For all our differences, we’ve come to the same end, Fisher and I, and not even a year apart. He wore his Sunday best, I was told. Ready to meet his maker. The biggest excitement of his seventy-plus pious years. He’d have died anyway, within a year or so; he was merely helped on his way. Me, though: how many years will I be missing? Fisher had no daughter to leave, did he. None of them did, those men.
Well, I only hope God was impressed by Fisher’s dapper attire. That evening, I did some dressing up of my own, because I attended a Mass for his soul. It was important to show the proper attitude towards a poor, misguided soul. At least I did it. He wouldn’t have been going to a Mass for me, tonight, if he’d lived. Not that there’ll be a Mass for me.
Anyway, Fisher was lucky: there were far slower, messier deaths. Three Carthusian monks were chained, standing, to stakes: no food or water, no washing, no relief of any kind until they died. Remember, though: all these men were traitors. They’d admitted to it. I’m no traitor. Nor did I do what Tom says I did. My coming death is a mere convenience so that Henry can marry someone else and make peace with Spain. And to think he never did it for me, however much I asked: never put the previous queen to death. Too scared of Spain. There’s no country to stick up for me. This is my country. How would it have been, if Catherine had died years ago? Without a big fat poisonous Spanish fly in the ointment, would Henry and I have settled and been happy? People say I poisoned her, but I say that, in a way, she poisoned me.
All the righteous indignation around when Fisher died was nothing compared to when More went to the block. But guess whose voice joined in, this time? Henry’s. Suddenly, it was me who’d made him do it. How did I do that? Guide his hand towards the warrant? I hadn’t been near enough to him for a long time to hold his hand. Henry, helpless again. Of course, he didn’t say as much. Didn’t say much at all. Just moved house and refused to see me, for two days. Gone hawking, I’d be told. Or, Retired early. Then, eventually, he’d see me—had to—but not look at me; not really. I was invisible. Well, maybe. If he tried hard enough. But inaudible? Oh, no, not a chance.
Loathing things unsaid, I decided to tackle him. The day I chose, he’d been hawking: up and gone again before I was up at all. I was well and truly ready for his return. He didn’t arrive back in his rooms with the others, though. But Harry Norris was there, with Meg. Often the case, now, I’d noticed: Harry and Meg. Either Henry had tired of her, or—who knows?—he’d been magnanimous enough to recognize the truth of the situation and leave her and his best friend to follow their hearts.
‘Where’s Henry?’ I asked Harry.
He glanced around; he’d been preoccupied with Meg. ‘Oh—’ embarrassed—‘he must still be down at the stables.’ His smile was a wince of apology. ‘Sorry.’
I flapped the apology aside. It was better for my purposes, of course, that Henry was in the stables. There was a possibility of privacy.
I found him coming across the stableyard, and launched in. ‘Stop blaming me for More’s death.’
‘Anne,’ he knocked a shock of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, ‘I’ve had a long day.’ He didn’t slow up.
So, I was behind him. My voice carries, though. ‘Very convenient for you, isn’t it, if More’s death is my fault.’
Now, he did stop. Turned, even. ‘I don’t blame you.’ Blank-eyed. Mud-caked.
‘Oh, so, his death was nothing to do with me?’
This drew something from him: he sighed a laugh, humourless and exasperated. ‘Well, of course it was something to do with you.’
Here it came: the truth of how he felt. ‘How, exactly, is that?’
He actually took a step towards me. ‘If it weren’t for you, none of this’d be happening.’
I walked right up to him and said into his face, ‘If it weren’t for me, you’d still be in a marriage that was no marriage at all.’
A skywards flick of those colourless little eyes, and he strode away. Hampered by my dress, I couldn’t give chase. I circled the yard, struggling to keep my temper.
Oddly, when relations between us reached their worst, we then had a period of respite. Perhaps we both knew we’d reached the brink, and, at that stage, the only imaginable way was backwards. No doubt it helped that we were away, on progress. The weather was abysmal, but we were cosseted by our various hosts. Mindful of More’s execution, I suspect, they were falling over themselves to impress Henry. I’d never seen so many portraits of him. Excellent business, suddenly, for painters.
We began to sleep together again, perhaps because we were away from home. With everyone at such close quarters, our separate beds had become so much more noticeable. And then, thrown together, we found that we could. The relief was dizzying. When George arrived back from France with the news that the answer to my proposal was no, I didn’t care. In fact, I partied. Because who needed the French? They were cowards.
More bad news, though: Spain had, at last, taken Tunis. The Emperor was on a roll, and an unstoppable Spaniard wasn’t a good prospect for England. I didn’t say it to Henry, I wouldn’t have dared, but it was as if he heard me anyway: Don’t think about it. Because this was
summertime, even if it felt more like January. We were on holiday. We didn’t have to think about anything, not until we were home.
Tom visited, from time to time, and gave the impression of enjoying himself. It seems that he was never off-duty, though. From an unguarded comment from Meg, via Harry, I learned that Tom was considering reinstating pasty-faced Mary as heir.
What?
France’s betrayal? Their loss.
Spain’s war-mongering? Only to be expected.
But Tom’s latest scheme? What on earth was he playing at?
There was only one way to find out. Even though it was late, I rushed to the guest room he’d been allocated. I wouldn’t have been able to rely on Henry for a straight answer. Tom was sitting up in bed, paperwork spread over the blankets. He didn’t seem in the least put out, as I’d known he wouldn’t be. Business is business, whatever the hour. Even as I was still closing the door behind me, I was confronting him with what I’d heard.
‘Anne,’ he said, evenly, ‘you’re a pragmatist. Elizabeth’s not even two years old. Marriage, for her, is a long way off. I need something I can work with now. There’s interest in Mary, whether you like it or not.’ He raised a hand, to halt me. ‘Forget liking it or not liking it: there is interest in Mary. I’m only working with what I’ve got.’
I didn’t say, It’s the principle. His word, pragmatist, stopped me. Because he was right, of course he was right; there was no argument: me, arch-pragmatist. But somehow he was also wrong. Very, very wrong. I just said, ‘No.’ Exploded: ‘No!’ Stalked across the rickety floorboards to grab him by the shoulders. ‘How can you do this?’ Because what was happening? Why was everything slipping away from me, again? ‘This is my life you’re playing with!’
‘I’m not playing,’ he said, over-patiently. ‘I’m doing the job I’m paid to do.’
The Queen of Subtleties Page 23