If Paradise existed, then Hampton Court was surely it.
One afternoon my mother and I sat on a bench shaded by an ornamental tree, enjoying the garden’s beauty. She had left her summer residence at Hever to pay a final visit before I went into confinement. As always, I treasured her company. In the morning, we had been presented the new celebratory medal which had been struck in honour of the upcoming birth of what Henry and I hoped – and fervently believed – would be our son.
“Anne, I can’t help but find it so amusing to see that medal – such an official looking thing! – with your portrait on it, and your motto. I look at it, and all I can think of is the day – oh, how long ago it seems – when you were a maiden walking with your mother in the autumn garden at Hever, and we talked about how a marriage for love would make you happy. Truly, at that moment never could I have envisioned the life you now have. You are a mother, yourself; soon with two babies. And you’ve come to know how very much you wish for your children to be happy and their lives healthy and tranquil.”
“I do, Mother. I think about Elizabeth every day and ponder on the life she will lead. I know that there is no conquest or accomplishment I wish for her more than her simple happiness and contentment.” I wrinkled my nose somewhat wryly. “Mind you, I’m equally certain that Henry would not concur with that sentiment - instead, he will want her to make her mark upon the world in a resplendent, significant way … whereas I wish only for her, and for my unborn babe, to live halcyon lives filled with love and joy.”
I smiled then. “The peacefulness I feel, sitting here with you in this wonderful glade, surely does not reflect my life’s daily measure. Nor will it distinguish Elizabeth’s, I fear. But after all, she is her father’s child – and her mother’s. Undoubtedly she will revel in any challenge which confronts her. And my son …?” I caressed my extended belly as if it were the baby himself. “… well, he will be just like his father: courageous, exuberant, a lover of life and all that it brings. He will be well able to adapt, and he will thrive, this I know.”
My lady mother gave me a loving look while reaching to tuck a tendril of my hair, which had escaped, back under its hood, then we rose together to stroll back to the palace for dinner.
Henry arrived at Hampton Court with his attendants by the middle of the month. Never one to remain in place for long, especially during the summer, he’d travelled with a reduced household which included his closest Privy Council members: Sir Edward Rogers - one of Henry’s chief Esquires of the Body, and Sir William Paulet, his Comptroller. This small group finalized the route to be followed on summer progress, due to commence in July. In the latter part of the previous year, there had been talk of Henry and I visiting Calais this July, instead of our usual summer progress. It was thought that we should stay in Calais as we had done in 1532 just before we were married, and then travel on to Paris to see King François and Queen Eleanor. Not only would a visit strengthen the sometimes volatile bond shared by the two kings, but Henry and I would have an opportunity to discuss the possible marital union of our daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, with the son of François and his former wife, Queen Claude: Charles, Duke of Orléans. When Henry had first informed me of this possibility, I was thrilled with the anticipation of a new adventure. Not only did I have a taste for travel to locations outside of England’s borders, but I would again visit the site of my youth and people whom I had once loved but had not seen in many years: chief amongst them being Marguerite.
But Fate intervened. A most benign and joyous Fate on this occasion. Shortly after the idea had taken form, I discovered I was pregnant. Of course, Henry was elated, and only too happy to postpone the trip until after I safely delivered so, in our place, George was tasked to go. He was to travel to the French king with all speed, first stopping at Paris to offer our hearty recommendations to the Queen of Navarre, if she was there. He was to say that Queen Anne, his mistress, rejoices greatly in the deeply-rooted amity of the two kings, and he was to offer gifts as tokens of our goodwill.
Most importantly, though, he would express our wish to have the much-desired meeting deferred. George would explain, in his perfect French, that though the King is very anxious to see his good brother François, it is impossible at present because his beloved Queen is so far gone with child that she cannot cross the sea, and the King would be loath to deprive her of his Highness’s presence when it was most necessary, at the birth. George would, instead, seek deferment of the meeting until the following April, and press the matter most earnestly in all hope that the meeting of diplomacy between the two kings and queens, and François’ eminent sister the Queen of Navarre might take place then, in France.
I had every confidence that George would succeed in his mission, his charm, and diplomatic skills being, at this stage, unsurpassed. I waited assuredly for his return and a full report of the goings on at the French court. In the meantime, I continued to hear and resolve petitions put before me, provide approvals for my financial affairs with Master George Taylor, my Receiver-General, and pursue my patronage of selected individuals who advanced the cause of religious reform, or who excelled in the arts.
On a balmy evening in early July, I had walked the privy gardens with Henry after supper. We’d talked about his intention to stay near to hand, but visit some of the local villages in the coming weeks before my confinement. In any case, he would be easily reachable, and I had no cause to worry. He was very protective of me: even as we walked, he kept his arm about my shoulders, a gesture which felt safe and gave me great comfort. At the staircase which led to the King’s and Queen’s apartments, he kissed me and wished me a good night. Contented, I climbed to meet Lucy, my chambermaid, at the entrance to my privy chamber. With the familiar ease that came from our years together, she led me to the closet to prepare me for bed.
Tucked in, I read for a short while until Lucy came to snuff the candles then settled back among the pillows and drifted easily to sleep.
… And then … in the pitch-black of the night I awoke with a start, my forehead covered with a clammy sweat, heart pounding in terror …why?
I scrambled to sort my thoughts; to understand what had awakened me. As realization dawned, I felt sick, as if I were to vomit from fear.
It was the babe! It was not moving in my womb. How long had it been since I last knew it to be active? Desperately I tried to recall the last time - the last moment – I had felt a kick, a turn, anything. I strove to remember. Nothing throughout the entire day before … meeting with my councillors … dining with Henry…walking in the garden - nor even during the night, for that matter, when it had become commonplace to feel the baby shifting its position. No movement at all. Oh, how could I not have been concerned …?
I could scarcely breathe in my rising panic. I had naively assumed the baby was simply at rest, but now I could not escape the dreadful truth.
I called shrilly, panic-stricken, for Lucy to fetch the midwife, Nan Cobham, who was staying in a chamber close by until the birth. While Lucy, in her robe and carrying a lantern aloft, flew to summon Nan, Emma quickly lit candles and the hearth then came to my bedside to hold my hand, dabbing gently at my brow with a cooling cloth. She looked so frightened, but I could not even speak to tell her what was wrong. For her part, she just patted me a little too helplessly while repeating over and over, “It will be alright, Madame, just breathe. All will be well.”
By the time Nan arrived, hastily dressed and bearing a look of alarm, the pains had started. They spread upward from my lower back, agonizing enough to make me gasp with their severity. I began to cry. There was no possible way my baby, coming now – too soon – could survive. I prayed, and both Lucy and Emma prayed aloud with me as they hurriedly collected more cloths, heated water, and placed pillows at my back.
I was frantic for God to hear me and my entreaty! If only He might still work a miracle. Between gasps, as my body heaved I implored Him to allow this one, o
h so special infant, to live. Nan bent over me and valiantly did her best – it was much too late to summon other women to help. Through what seemed like a thick fog I heard her call to me to push, and she pressed on my belly, aiding the child to emerge quickly in the hope it might be saved.
I pushed.
And prayed.
At the end, though, I heard a quiet sob. It may have been Lucy’s, or Emma’s.
Nan remained at my feet holding the tiny baby who had just been born.
No sound came from the child. No cry. No intake of breath.
She had died.
Maggie sat next to me on that same stone bench I had shared with my mother several weeks prior. Sunlight dappled the grass which carpeted the small corner garden, and I could hear the soft splashing of the fountain which fed the pool, while vaguely aware of the heavy scent of lavender emanating from a nearby, sun-kissed bed. Idly I wondered if I would ever again enjoy the smell of lavender – it had once been my favourite, but now it just seemed cloying: a further intrusion into my grief.
Maggie, one of the few people in the world whose presence I could tolerate during that ghastly time, sought my hand and laid hers atop it. Briefly, I glanced up at her with what I knew must be red-rimmed eyes, full of sorrow. I had never imagined – not in any way –that a human being could endure such personal anguish. At times, my thoughts were so painful that I wished for eternal sleep to relieve me of them.
“Anne, I hesitate to speak,” Maggie ventured “I have many things to say, but I know – how well I know – that you will not wish to hear them. Your reaction mirrors precisely how I, myself, felt when my first baby died just a single day after his birth … no one could comfort me; like you I was inconsolable. But my love for you, dearest Anne, compels me to be candid.”
She put her hand under my chin and lifted my face, so I met her gaze. “And you must listen. Anne - you must! Because you are not like other women – simple country women, who, when they birth a dead child, can be left to grieve until they feel ready to re-enter life. You are Queen. And cruel as it may seem, you have no choice but to resume your duty.”
I looked at Maggie silently, biting on my trembling lower lip to steady it as she pressed on.
“Anne, you still have a daughter who needs you. She is a wonderful, glorious child, and you cannot leave her entire upbringing to others. She must have her mother. And … there is Henry. I know – I have been told by some closest to him – that he, too, is grieving painfully. You cannot turn your back on him, Anne, although you may not feel he can soothe your heartache in the way you would wish. You must cling together! And you know this to be true: you must have him return to your bed as soon as you are able. You are his wife. You can still conceive and give birth to a healthy child.”
I felt my tears well yet again.
“You cannot have him turn to another woman, Anne,” Maggie pressed gently. “you must be there for him. You must give comfort to each other.”
She waited while I composed myself. Bless my Maggie. Who else would be able - would dare - to say these things to me, at this, the lowest point I had ever experienced? I don’t believe even my lady mother could have risked guiding me so frankly. And anyway, she was enduring her great despair at the loss of her grandchild; especially one who had held such promise.
I nodded slowly. “Thank you, sweet friend. My ears have heard your words, and I pray that my soul will respond.” My doleful eyes sought hers while I clung to her hand. “Maggie, truly – what would I do without you? You are with me in the good times, and the bad. There is no way in which I can ever express to you the depth of my gratitude.”
She smiled a kindly smile. “Ours is a unique friendship, Anne. From running wild as children in the open fields of Kent to dancing in the gleaming palaces of London. It’s uncanny, is it not? But we have forged a partnership, and if it is up to me, it will remain as such until the day we die.”
I hugged her long and tight and kissed her cheek. And in doing that, I felt a glimmer of hope – the first since that awful night of my baby’s death.
Hampton Court
Greenwich
Autumn 1534
I remember almost nothing about that autumn. As the trees turned from green to red, then to tawny and umber, I observed them with eyes which may as well have been those of a blind woman. I wandered the palace and its grounds not seeing, not hearing, often unaware of the courtiers who passed me and bowed or curtseyed a greeting. Maggie’s advice swirled round and round in my mind, but I seemed stuck – unable to act – even though I wished to. I had never experienced such deep grief, and I was surprised by its all-encompassing nature and its vicious ability to siphon every bit of vitality from a person.
I now know that grief shows itself variously in different individuals. Henry, upon being quietly informed of the tragedy, shut himself in his most private chambers. He emerged to visit me once, and his face had so aged I was appalled. He did not look me in the eye but sat silently at my bedside for many long minutes. Only finally did he speak, whereupon he told me nothing would be said about the incident. No one, not even those closest to him, was to refer to it. We agreed that the child would be named Margaret, and we would have Cranmer arrange her interment with the utmost discretion. Following the conclusion of that sad necessity, Henry would carry on with his progress as planned, thus he would be away for some time. I did not reply. Before he stood to leave, he clutched my hand, squeezing it so hard that it pained me. But still he did not face me, could not bring himself to look into my soul … and then he was gone.
Perhaps it was better, after all.
I found that my fragility caused me to be filled with rancor. In that period, I feel certain that most everyone dreaded my company, even those closest to me.
In late September, I received my sister, Mary. She arrived at court, smiling and obviously happy, with a man whom she announced as being her new husband. One could feel her delight and pride as she stood next to her tall companion, William Stafford, a soldier in Henry’s army, and a farmer of his family’s modest property in Essex. Without the slightest trace of diffidence Mary glibly told me they had met while both were in Calais some two years prior, accompanying Henry and me on our trip. They had fallen in love, and Mary had taken upon herself - without even consulting me! - to marry the fellow: a match well beneath her station.
I was furious. I found that my pain quickly converted to ire – and the demonstration of that anger felt good; it gave me relief. So I let loose a torrent on Mary and the hapless Stafford. I told her, in a voice so cold that it even startled me, to leave court and not to return.
“Ever?” she said, her dismay reflecting surprise and hurt.
“Not ever, Mary! I will summon you if I require you. But I see no possibility of that anytime soon. So - GO!”
She turned from me with a woebegone look and slowly left the presence chamber. Once she glanced back, but receiving no encouragement, continued, her husband holding her arm to steady her.
As I watched her go, I felt as if I would choke with resentment.
She was pregnant.
In that same month, Pope Clement VII died. For him, I felt nothing. He had been our adversary for so long, and an incendiary in the heated arguments between conventional advocates of Catholicism and the new thinkers who fought for change and enlightenment. Oh, he had exuded authority - as Pope he was entitled to do so - but it was well known that the despotism of popes throughout the ages was a carefully preserved patina: it does not take much to cleave that polished surface and discover that what lies beneath is often a much less inspiring sight. With that knowledge, I had little confidence that the next Pope would provide any improvement at all. It was a matter of days before Alessandro Farnese was elected by the conclave and assumed his regnal name of Paul III. Only time would tell if he would be able, in any way, to mend the broken relationship between Henry VIII and the Roman Chur
ch.
I had my doubts...
By early October, I was only too happy to leave Hampton Court, desperate to escape the memories which met me around every corner. I wanted to return to Greenwich, where I hoped I could restore my spirit, and repair my marriage.
In addition to all that I endured over those sombre months, rumours churned that Henry had taken a mistress. Whereas during another time or place, I might have gone mad with jealousy, my reaction to the whispered news was deadened. Henry and I had met with each other only infrequently over these many weeks. In fact, I realized much later that I must have purposely avoided him, without an overt admission of such. I was just not ready to resume relations as husband and wife. I was still too raw.
So with great relief, I moved back to Greenwich, and quickly organized a trip to Richmond to see Elizabeth, whom, I admit, I had not visited for some time. I knew just the sight of her would do me a large measure of good, and felt lighthearted for the first time in a long while. I arranged a dinner and invited some my ladies. Some of the gentlemen of Henry’s council attended as well. I was told, then, that the Lady Mary was also at Richmond, having been compelled to accompany Elizabeth as a part of her retinue. So I decided I would seek another meeting with that recalcitrant young woman in the chance she might capitulate and acknowledge me as Queen. In which case I would certainly treat her with the utmost largesse and hope to repair our fractured connection.
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