My queasiness did subside, and in its place, I found I had little tolerance for meats but had a great urge to eat fruit, especially apples. I delighted in how my belly had become firm and had begun to swell as the babe within me grew and flourished.
Admittedly there were times when my resolve to remain discreet faltered. Rapturous over my new and treasured position as the King’s pregnant wife, and simply itching for some jovial mischief, one wintry and bleak February afternoon I mingled with the usual groups of courtiers clustered, talking and passing time in the Presence Chamber. While conversing with Thomas Wyatt and the newly married Anne Gainsford Zouche I’d first looked artfully about to assess the crowd within earshot, then, during a lull in our discussion, had selected an apple from a porcelain bowlful which sat upon the sideboard before calling loudly and playfully, “These apples look delicious, don’t you think, Thomas? It is quite strange because, of late, I find I have an insatiable hankering to eat apples such as I have never experienced before.”
I waited for my words to register, and then widened my eyes in mock disbelief. “The King tells me it must be a sign that I am pregnant. But I have told him I think he certainly must be wrong …!”
Then I laughed loudly, thinking this little scene terribly humorous, prompting heads to turn and everyone within range of hearing to stare. Gratified with the reaction thus generated, I stood, gathered my skirt with a flourish and swept coquettishly from the room, leaving all in my wake wondering what had just taken place.
Not that Henry, either, could contain our joyful secret entirely. He was giddy with unbridled elation at being a new husband and father-to-be. And although no official royal announcement had yet been made concerning our matrimony or my condition, he became less and less concerned with guarding the news. And how rightfully he deserved to proclaim the reasons for his exuberance for, I thought, no man had ever shown such patience, such loyalty, such dedication to any woman as did my Henry to me.
To provide him with just the smallest demonstration of my gratitude and devotion, I planned an elegant banquet in his honour, which was to be held in my beautiful new apartments in Whitehall on 24 February; the Feast of St Mathias. I invited all of the great personages of the court, and personally attended to every detail, as was my wont, to ensure the room looked its grandest. With fine arras lining the walls, masses of glowing gold plate on display, and spectacular dishes presented in elaborate style, my position and wealth were now evident to all. The ladies whom I had assembled as members of my household were all present, gaily bedecked, looking stunning, and in high humour. On that evening, Henry had chosen to partake of aqua vitae, or as its distillers called it - uisge beatha - the wickedly potent spirit produced by Scottish monks. He quickly became flush with the drink, jesting and flirting madly with me and my ravishing companions. I found his boisterous, ribald jokes and silly levity to be completely endearing, thinking how much he deserved an evening of release after the tensions he had endured. At one point he gave me a staged wink so noticeable that anyone in view would have wondered what was to come, then moved close - much too close - to the very proper Dowager Duchess of Norfolk before blurting loudly, with a noticeable slurring of the tongue, “Your Ladyship! Doth you not think that Madame the Marquess, seated right here next to me, has an exceptionally fine dowry and a rich marriage portion as we can all see from her luxurious apartment?”
He gesticulated wildly with his arms to indicate the scope of my possessions, nearly knocking the goblets from the table. “Does that not make her an excellent marriage prospect, hey?” Then, as I had done just a few days prior, he exploded in raucous laughter at his drink-fueled sense of comedy. The Duchess, stony-faced, leaned as far back in her seat as was possible in an attempt to escape Henry’s liquored breath while those observing tittered behind their hands. Watching my beloved sway while he roared with amusement, I couldn’t help but enjoy my own hearty chuckle.
The celebration did not conclude till early the morning next. From the room littered with the debris of gaiety, I saw the King off. Henry Norreys, his Groom of the Stool, had his arm firmly about the shoulders of His Majesty as he guided him, staggering amiably, toward his chambers. I suspected I would not see Henry at all on the morrow since there was little doubt he would remain abed till he could recover from the effects of the uisge. Smiling happily as I took myself to bed, I reflected on the entertaining moments of the evening, and mostly on what an irresistible drunk my husband had been.
Maggie Wyatt, Anne Zouche, Nan Saville and I sat at a polished table in the well-appointed Queen’s Presence Chamber at Whitehall. Sipping small ale, piles of letters and personal references strewn before us, we reviewed the lists of maids and ladies who had been proposed to make up my retinue: potential appointees to the household of the Queen. Glancing up from a sheet of parchment, Maggie looked at me inquiringly. “How well do you know Lady Cobham, Anne?”
“I know her scarcely. I have met her on several occasions but can’t say I have ever had a conversation of any depth with her. Do you know her, Maggie? How is her temperament? I daresay I am not keen on having those unknown to me as a part of my close personal circle. But then, I am not permitted to make strictly my own selections.” Eyeing the stacks of letters from noble families all imploring for a position for a daughter or niece, I added, “His Grace the King owes many a favour, and I conveniently provide a solution by taking daughters of those so favoured into my household.” I paused then, sniffing, “… even though it is of considerable concern to have someone unfamiliar serving in such proximity.”
Indeed, I believed I was well justified in feeling irritated by this requirement. With a sharp stab of anguish, I remembered the incident of my stolen love letters. I recalled, as if it had happened only yesterday, my panic at the discovery and resulting despair which flooded me when I’d realized that someone – a spy; a secret enemy within my closest personal space! – had stolen the locked casket which concealed the letters which I had carefully kept together, and out of sight, over the years. I believed the miscreant was a maid employed to serve me in my privy chambers. She was recommended by my Uncle Norfolk’s wife, but at the time I was unaware of the extent of Elizabeth Howard, Lady Norfolk’s animosity toward me. So I fell into the Duchess’s vicious trap and naively exposed my greatest treasure to an individual who had been hired by a detractor to steal evidence of Henry’s love for me. They were intimate and immensely personal: gorgeous letters full of the romantic expression of a man deeply in love - missives composed by Henry throughout the beginning years of our courtship, mostly while we were apart, I having been at Hever while Henry remained at court. Every scratch of the quill, each splotch of ink smeared by his big hand had drawn me closer to him. He had revealed his wit using clever wordplay, and his bawdy, waggish self when he described a beautiful gown he had had made for me – one that he longed to see me in – and out of! Mostly, I ached to see once again those sweet and wistful drawings of a small heart, etched around my initials at the close of an especially endearing letter. I pored over them often, running my fingers over his writing, knowing he had meant them for my eyes only. And then, in a trice, they were gone, never to be returned or seen by me again. My heart broke every time I thought of it.
I was pulled back to the business at hand as Maggie shrugged, “I too, know her only superficially even though she is sister-in-law to my brother Thomas … or was when Thomas was married to that little scandal, Elizabeth Brooke. But the few times I have been in her company, she seemed quiet. Or perhaps simply exhausted, seeing as she has seven children!”
“That I cannot even imagine,” I rejoined, wryly patting my stomach. “I am happy to be working on just one.”
Anne smiled indulgently at me. My dear, close friends were treating me with such loving care. Then, narrowing her eyes and peering again at the list, she questioned, “And what of Mistress Seymour? Do either of you know much of her? She has been at court off and on for years s
ince she served Katherine yet still I have never talked to her about anything of consequence.”
I could not resist the temptation to be waspish about a woman of questionable allegiance, for whom I cared little anyway. Arching one groomed brow, I sneered “Why, is that not simply characteristic of Mistress Seymour? And the reason is that she appears to hold naught in that empty little head of hers which is of any importance …”
Hearing myself, I ruefully observed that my pregnancy had somehow stripped away a goodly layer of the discernment needed to avoid saying whatever came to my mind, no matter how cutting. But I didn’t care so I added smugly, “Forsooth, ladies, her intelligence mirrors her looks - quite common!”
Anne and Maggie looked at each other and pressed their lips tightly in an attempt to suppress their laughter. Apparently they found my unchecked outbursts entertaining.
“WELL … Am I wrong?” I demanded with mock severity, my probing glance shifting between the two. “Speak out - what do you both think of her?”
“You are by no means in the wrong, Anne,” Maggie hastily allowed. “She is quiet and dull as a tiny titmouse. She will offer no hardship as a member of your household because she will provide no opinions, and no one will even notice her.”
Mollified, I grumbled, “Well then, that should be acceptable to me,” and continued to peruse the lists.
The assembling of ladies who would make up my household neared completion, with many well-liked appointees and some about whom I was indifferent but whose appointments served their purpose. My closest confidantes had already been included, and then we added to the total number Nan Cobham and, somewhat grudgingly on my part, Mistress Seymour. It only remained, then, to confirm positions with Jane Ashley; Margaret Gamage, who was betrothed and set to marry William Howard in the spring; young Mary Norreys, who was the daughter of Henry’s Groom of the Stool; the very pretty Grace Newport; Eleanor Paston, Countess of Rutland and a mother of six; Mistress Frances de Vere – at sixteen already wed to Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. There then followed Elizabeth Browne, Lady Worcester, and my sister-in-law Jane Parker, Lady Rochford. All were possessed of a singular degree of beauty - apart from Seymour. It was important to me that my ladies present an exceptional appearance and, furthermore, conduct themselves with unblemished gentility, and I fully intended to duly instruct them once they were all in place.
As for the men of my royal household, there were to be numerous trusted advisers. Thomas Cromwell, already indispensable to the King, was among those whom I considered beneficial, and he would serve an important place in my retinue once I was Queen. George Taylor would continue his good work as my Receiver-General. William Coffin, long in the King’s service, would assume the position of my Master of the Horse; Thomas Burgh as Lord Chamberlain; and Sir Edward Baynton as Vice Chamberlain. Perhaps most important to me were those selected to be my personal chaplains. These brilliant men would confer with me and preach on our shared reformist views, a mission which would demand keen intelligence, a broad knowledge of theology and, perhaps above all, courage. We selected Hugh Latimer, a Cambridge scholar; Matthew Parker, another Cambridge theologian whom I had liked and trusted from the first time I met him; William Betts, who had already proved his mettle several years prior when found to be one of a group of scholars boldly circulating books deemed by our opponents to be heretical; and the redoubtable John Skypp. Skypp could be almost too resolute in the expression of his views, but I admired that about him. All in all, I intended to surround myself with a strong, outspoken assembly who would advance the cause of reform and unfailingly support Henry’s right to supremacy.
Yet there were many in and around court who remained sources of great frustration to me. My abiding perception that Henry’s chosen ambassador in Rome, Sir Gregory Casale, was apathetic had proved all too true when, late in January, we were given letters he had written boasting his self-described ‘advancement’ of Henry’s cause. After years of fruitless negotiation on the Great Matter, Casale still considered it acceptable to present letters to the King that laid out numerous additional conditions demanded by the Pope to pronounce in Henry’s favour. First, Henry must send a mandate for the remission of the cause, along with a newly appointed legate and two auditors. Then, he must persuade François to accept a general truce for three or four years, even amongst other ridiculous requirements. This contrivance was in complete opposition with Henry’s instructions to Casale and did the Ambassador’s credentials no service in my view. Henry however, always the gracious Sovereign, still responded politely to his man in Rome, advising him to thank the Pope, and discreetly tell his Holiness that the overtures were taken in good part, and trusting the Pope would concur, only by ‘will and unkind stubbornness, with oblivion of former kindness, which be occasions of the let of the speedy finishing of our cause’.
I had looked on Henry’s temperate reply in amazement, and with no small measure of cynical admiration. It made me realize I needed to learn all I could from him, seeing that soon I was to be Queen, and would often be required to respond well and fairly to vexing situations. Learn I must, because had this particular matter been left to me, I would have delivered a tongue-lashing to Signore Casale that he would not soon have forgotten!
On occasion, I would think back - oh, not so many years - to my life in France followed by my early time in the court of Henry and Katherine, and marvel at how my existence had changed so dramatically. Upon reflection, those days were so easy and light-hearted in their simple pursuits: maintaining a young lady’s proper demeanor; hunting, dancing, playing at witty pastimes, dallying with the most handsome men and adorning oneself to play the coquette ... the threads weaving my life’s tapestry had long since become much more intricate indeed.
Ever conscious of the new life – the all-important life – growing within me, I was engaged from morn ‘til night. Details concerning the establishment of my household called for my attention; audiences were requested by those who sought my support in pleading matters to the King’s Grace; there was constant worry about the increasingly intense skirmishes between Scotland and England while the tentative relationship with France was always of concern. Above all hung the palpable hostility of my opposers. Those critics – I had begun to think of them as enemies – were becoming ever more brazen, and openly included some who had been previously close to Henry and me: his sister Mary chief amongst them, with her husband Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who precariously balanced between the opinions of his wife and his King … even my Uncle Norfolk, surprisingly – whose position could only be strengthened by the Howard bloodline on the throne, yet who openly disapproved of the dire measures being taken with the Church to achieve that goal.
At times I did wish for a reprieve, just a simple moment in time when I might revert to being Anne from Hever – but, of course, it was not to be had.
I could do naught but rejoice, however, when, in March, Cromwell delivered his carefully crafted Act in Restraint of Appeals to the Commons in Parliament, urging them to approve the statute which would enforce Henry’s supremacy in all things pertaining to his realm. Both Houses approved the Act, and on 10 April, just before Easter, a definitive blow was delivered to Katherine. She was informed by a deputation comprising Norfolk, Suffolk, Exeter, Oxford, and the royal chamberlains that we had been married and, on direct orders of Henry the King, she was no longer Queen but would henceforth be referred to as the Dowager Princess of Wales. Her daughter Mary, whom I had not seen – or frankly, even given much thought to - in many months, remained apart from her mother with a diminished household.
True, the mere fact of their continued existence presented me with a vexation - but how good it was to think no longer of Katherine, or the former Princess, now known simply as Lady Mary - as active threats to the happiness I shared with Henry!
And happy we truly were.
Whitehall
Late March 1533
I was extremely app
rehensive but nevertheless managed to paste a forced smile when Henry excitedly bid me take my seat at the table. He had invited his favoured astrologer, Master John Robyns, a Fellow of All Souls, Oxford, and thereby most accomplished, to a private supper with us for the purpose of receiving Robyns’ prognostications on the impending birth of our child.
Now well into my fourth month of pregnancy and with my health seemingly superb, I was nevertheless unaccustomed to being in the presence of soothsayers and felt uneasy about what he might have to impart. Henry, on the other hand, positively throbbed with anticipation, and so we readied ourselves for what the esteemed astrologer would reveal.
I watched Henry as he and Robyns became thoroughly absorbed in studying the astrolabe set upon the long table in the library. I could not pay mind to what they discussed, however, as I was distracted by a peculiar sensation in my stomach, so much so that while they were engrossed in conversation I rose to walk about, then found a place to sit somewhat apart on a more comfortable chair, willing my supper to digest. Though I had not eaten overmuch, still I felt the food quivering in my gut. I thought it unusual because I was not nauseous or in pain, just feeling a constant fluttering … and of a sudden it all came clear! I sat bolt upright, placing my hands on my belly. It was not indigestion; it was the quickening of my child – my babe – within my womb! I could not stem the tears which filled my eyes, and fought to keep myself in check for, in truth, I did not wish to share such a very special moment with Master Robyns present. Though I did want to hear what he had to say, I could not wait ‘til he had gone and I could share this wondrous event with my husband.
“Your Highnesses,” Robyns half turned to address me while he and Henry continued to sit at the table strewn with parchments inscribed with celestial charts and figures. “I have excellent news. After much study and great deliberation, I am happy to inform you that your child, the Royal Child, will be born under the sixth astrological sign – indeed the most auspicious sign. That of Virgo ...”
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