by G Lawrence
Weeks had passed since the Cardinal’s death. A few weeks during which Henry seemed to have forgotten all the love he once possessed for Thomas Wolsey. On the day he had heard of Wolsey’s death, Henry had mourned, but since then he had heard a great deal that made him think ill of the Cardinal. It had not taken much to get him to agree to attend this event.
I was glad, for in anger, Henry mourned Wolsey less. That pleased me, for his silent grief had been disturbing. I loved Henry and did not want him to suffer, but I feared my beloved would turn a man into a martyr. I did not want Henry to relapse into believing that Wolsey was right, and our faction was wrong… Did not want him hesitating, out of some misplaced sense of guilt or loyalty to his dead friend, over the radical path I believed we had to take to finally separate him from Katherine.
But I had been quickly reassured. Henry had a gift, if that is what you can call it, for setting people out of mind as soon as they were out of sight. It was callous, but I had cause to believe there were uses for this. He had loved Wolsey, loved him as a friend, like a father, even… but now the Cardinal was dead, Henry had come to view the time of the fat bat’s power as a horror that had befallen his country. Henry had been encouraged to believe that he had removed an agent of evil from England, and in doing so, had become not only England’s King, but her saviour. With so many voices telling him he had been right, godly, and justified, Henry could not help but be seduced.
I sipped from my goblet, unconsciously tapping my foot along with the music as the faux-Cardinal, accompanied by jeering and hooting, puffed his way about the chamber. It had been three years since Henry came to Hever with a ring in his hands and promises upon his lips. Three years of frustration, fear and anger. Three years to convince Henry to rid himself of the man who had stood in the way of our marriage. By God! When I thought of all we had faced, I felt as though I were watching a play. So much of what had passed was distant and unclear… as though I had not been there at all.
It had not been easy. I had tried to grow a thick skin over the fragile surface of my first in order to deal with my enemies at court and those amongst Henry’s people. I had been told to remain in the shadows, like a good maid, and let men control and organise the Great Matter. But they had not had the vim or the courage I possessed. They could not. They were fighting for position, for favour, for notoriety… I was fighting for my reputation and for my future.
No… They could not have become the generals I required. The stakes were not as high for them. I had become a warlord, fighting not with sword or arrow, but with thought, word and deed. I had taken my future in my own hands and I would be responsible for breathing life into fantasy.
But even though my greatest enemy had fallen, my position remained unsure. I sat on Katherine’s throne, but I was not Queen. I was with Henry at all times, but I was not his mistress. All my power came from Henry. But it was a fragile power, a wisp of authority. There was nothing solid in my life.
I ruled over an empire of glass.
When you are Queen, Anne Boleyn, you will be secure, I thought. But even as my mind spoke comfort, I knew it was not truth. I would be secure not when we married, but when I bore a son… when Henry saw me not only as the woman he loved, but as the saviour of his reign.
I took another sip of wine, letting it spill through my mouth. Nutmeg tingled on my pink tongue. The wine was welcome for it stopped my thoughts running on… tarrying on the possibility I might fail. I was twenty-nine. We could not wait much longer. My enemies hoped I would become too old to breed, and Henry would have to set me aside for the good of his kingdom. But Katherine was older than me. If he left me, they would force him back to her, and that, Henry would never allow. Not just because he loved me, not just because she could not offer him an heir, but because pride would never allow him to live with Katherine again.
Pride is a restless master. He held Henry tight in his hands.
We knew we would get no justice from the Pope. Clement was the lapdog of the Emperor Charles, dedicated to his wishes alone, but there were other ways to achieve our goals. We would make Henry King and Pope within England, and have the Great Matter decided by a Church over which he ruled. It was a radical, dangerous idea. It flew in the face of tradition, challenged the power of Rome, and would bring England enemies… but Henry would have the whole world know he was right. That was his higher purpose. The thought that he was justified and all others were at fault had brought a subtle shade of Henry’s character into sharp relief. Henry’s conviction of his righteousness had made him arrogant, even sanctimonious, at times.
I cared not, even when his conceit made my flesh creep. I wanted Henry to dither no more. It was time for action and great change demands boldness. I had been bold. I had done much that was underhand and strange. I had manipulated Henry, for his own good, as I told myself, and turned him against a man he thought of as a brother. But Wolsey was not the end. He was only the beginning. There were others who stood in our way and if I had to harden Henry’s heart against more people, I would. It was not only for me that I had acted, but for Henry, for England, and for the liberty that would come from Church reform. What would I not do to achieve my aim? Even if I were the last one standing on this battlefield, I would fight on. What other option did I have? To capitulate, after so many years of struggle and hardship, where my reputation had been trounced and my name had been bandied about as a synonym for whore? Submission was not an option. Failure was not my fate. I would have my crown. I would have Henry.
But I could not do this alone. I had allies, my family foremost amongst them, but I had foes too, and not only those who had always been set against me, but ones who had once been collaborators.
My uncle of Norfolk despised me. The feeling was mutual. Suffolk, Henry’s best friend and brother-in-law, had allied himself to our faction to get rid of Wolsey, but now the Cardinal was gone, Suffolk had no desire to see me made Queen. Suffolk not only disliked me, but his son was in line to the throne. If Henry produced no heirs, the son of this dullard Duke and his Tudor wife could well become the next King of England. Suffolk was not present at our little entertainment, as his wife was sick, and he had gone to be with her at Westhorpe Hall, their estate in East Anglia. That was Suffolk’s official excuse, but the reality was he had no intention of spending more time with the Boleyns than he had to. Suffolk had offended Henry some weeks ago by questioning my reputation, suggesting I had passed my youth in riot and lewd abandon, like my sister. Henry had not believed his friend, and had banished the Duke from court.
I thought of the day Norfolk had arrived to tell me Suffolk was banished, implying there was something said, as the Duke departed, that would not be to my liking.
“So… what said he, before he left?” I had asked Norfolk.
“That you did not deserve to be Queen.” A bright glimmer in my uncle’s eyes told me he agreed.
And Norfolk was not the only Howard who detested sharing blood with me. His wife, Elizabeth Stafford, loathed me. She was the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, he who had been executed for treason just before I returned to England. No matter the fall in her father’s fortunes, or the tumbling of his arrogant head from the scaffold, his daughter would always think a Stafford, as she was by birth, or a Howard, as she was by marriage, was far above a lowly Boleyn. Descended from John of Gaunt and Thomas Woodstock, Elizabeth thought of herself as royalty, a thought that had infested her father too, and cost him his life.
Recently, George had informed me our aunt had been heard deriding an elaborate family tree my father had produced. Elizabeth clearly thought it was fabricated and poured scorn on it whilst in company with her gossips. She was Katherine’s constant companion, and was close to Mary of Suffolk, but I believed my aunt allied herself with these women not from honest affection, but simply because she knew they could do me the most harm.
Powerful enemies I had, and there were others… servants of Wolsey who had lost their master and livings because of me; courtiers
who resented one of their own rising from their ranks; people who interpreted my confidence as arrogance, and mistook nervous bluster for haughty high-handedness. Add to that list the Emperor Charles of Spain and the Pope, and many would fear to clamber into bed each night, lest assassins be lurking in the woollen blankets.
But I had one great supporter; Henry. As long as I had his love, there were none who would dare touch me.
And no one could doubt our love. For me he had destroyed his friend. For me he struggled against Rome, Spain and Katherine. Henry would defy the world and every soul in it, for me… and for his pride.
I cast my eyes about the red room, watching foe and friend as they talked and danced. I nodded to Thomas Cromwell, standing slightly back from the crowds, as usual. He bowed, influencing the men about him to follow suit. I had great faith in him, for he was a promising man, with a ready mind. I needed men like him. Another, not present, was Cranmer. He was too gentle a soul to take part in disparaging the memory of the Cardinal, even though he had believed Wolsey corrupt. And besides, he was working, as he always was, on materials for our cause.
It is not only family that you have to be thankful for, I thought. If united in cause, cannot friends be as valuable as those who share our blood?
As though hearing my thoughts, Francis Bryan let out a hoot of laughter. The group gathered about him chortled with him. I saw my father lifting the ivory and gold horn of Thomas Becket to his lips. The Saint was our ancestor, and this heirloom, passed on through the Ormonde line, was said to have belonged to him. Quite why my father would wish to remind everyone that one of his forebears had been murdered by a king, I knew not, but he had lately taken to bringing it to all occasions, great and small.
Henry Norris, Groom of the Stool, stood beside Bryan with a goblet of wine in his hand and a gaggle of admiring women at his side. Several months a widower, Norris was a fine catch for any maid of court, yet he seemed reluctant to take another bride. Norris had two living children from his match with the late Mary Fiennes, daughter of Baron Dacre. He had already petitioned me to accept his daughter, Mary, into my household, if and when I finally became Queen, and his son, Henry, was a fine young man, almost ready to leave home to be educated by learned minds.
Although Norris supported me, I could see the glint of the golden cross he wore about his neck. A gift from the Cardinal, this necklace held a piece of the true cross. That Norris continued to wear it close to his skin even after the ignoble fall of Wolsey, demonstrated that whilst he supported Henry, supported me, he remembered the Cardinal with respect, perhaps even affection. But that did not prevent him from attending this scandalous entertainment. Norris, like Bryan and all wise souls at court understood where their loyalties had to lie.
I watched my hooting cousin. Recently returned from an embassy to France, Bryan had brought welcome news home with his baggage. King François wanted to aid Henry, for François was no friend to the Emperor. As Bryan arrived at court, Henry had ordered the ports closed. He wanted no spies sneaking into his kingdom as the Great Matter reached a turning point.
In Bryan’s wake, Antonio de Pulleo, Baron de Borgho, had just managed to slip in. He was sent from Rome as the new Papal Nuncio to England. Clement had chosen a layman to represent him, rather than a clergyman, thinking this might please Henry. De Borgho appeared as neutral as it was possible to be about the annulment, and had told Henry he was only there to advise him on what was happening in Rome. He was well-mannered, gallant and learned, and had managed to step into court with a light touch, keeping Henry as a friend, even though we all knew he was sent to work against us. At the end of our summer of sport, where we had hidden momentous advances in our cause under a pageant of pleasure and hunting, de Borgho had informed Henry that the six months moratorium agreed between Clement and my father had passed, and the trial of Henry’s marriage, postponed after the fiasco at Blackfriars, would go ahead. Clement was willing to talk about the judges, and even negotiate the place the trial would be heard if Henry continued to refuse to travel to Rome, but, de Borgho said, the Holy Father was not willing to wait.
We all knew this was a lie. Clement had done all he could to avoid reaching a conclusion for years. As soon as the trial began, he would insult and displease at least one powerful King, if not two… No… this was another delay. Another round of useless talks… An opportunity for Henry’s love for me to fade… Another chance for us to die of old age before anything was done… This was just another way for Clement to grind Henry’s strength, patience, and courage into dust… or so he thought.
Once, Henry would have believed in Clement without question. Now he did not. He had told de Borgho that there was no knowing what a modern pope in these degenerate times would do or say. Henry had the right to decide on this matter within his own kingdom, he said, as he had already informed the Pope.
“If Clement refuses to honour this, I will proceed to action,” Henry had said. “And if the Emperor of Spain assaults my country as a consequence, I will see off the attack. My good friend and ally, King François of France, will come to my aid, for he is an honest King who would never allow such a travesty of justice to come to pass for his good brother.”
I had almost laughed to see the Nuncio’s face. Never had I seen a man more startled. It was no small event for a king to flout the Pope.
Henry told the Nuncio that the case would be decided in England, and nowhere else. Leaving that meeting, Henry had gone to his Council, and tried to get them to support this, but his men could not sanction it. Not yet did Henry have the power he required to stand against Clement. We needed evidence and a public, lawful proclamation of Henry’s rights to set his authority in stone. This was not yet possible, but it was close… so close that sometimes I felt if I reached out a hand and grasped the air, I would catch a strand of fate.
But Henry had not relied on words alone. That same day he had issued a proclamation, forbidding any suit to Rome’s courts, and any attempt to publish bulls containing material prejudicial to the honour and royal prerogative of England. If any dared, they would face charges of praemunire, the same accusation that had destroyed Wolsey. Katherine, her supporters, as well as ambassadors and officials, were threatened with the same charge if they attempted to publish papal verdicts against Henry. Therefore, if de Borgho served writs against Henry, the Nuncio could be arrested.
My father, along with Suffolk and Norfolk, had gone on to inform the scandalised Nuncio, “we care neither for Pope or Popes in this kingdom. Even if St Peter should come to live again, the King is absolute both as Emperor and Pope in his own kingdom.”
Brave words. Bold words… But there were deeds behind such declarations.
Preparations for making England free of Rome, with Henry as Head of the Church, were underway. Investigations into the corrupt practices of monasteries and other religious houses had begun under Wolsey, and had been going on for some years, but their progress had been slow. Henry had pushed an Act through Parliament to reform abuses practised by the Church in England and a cap had been set on probate and mortuary fees. Regulations had been tightened on the offer of sanctuary to criminals, and the number of benefices that could be held by any one man had been reduced.
All over Europe, the call for monastic reform had been heard, for many religious houses were rich, slovenly, and scandalous. With the exception of the Carthusians, the Observant Friars and the Bridgettine order, all of whom demonstrated exceptional spiritual discipline and obedience to their vows, most houses had ceased to play a role in the spiritual life of England. Indeed, rather than enriching the lives of the people, they impoverished them; charging huge fees for services rendered, and keeping wealth for themselves, rather than observing vows of poverty and charity. Abbots had grown rich and fat, not only on the offerings of the poor, but through the King, who needed their support in the House of Lords and therefore often allowed them to pay no taxes. Servants did the menial tasks that monks and friars had once done, sometimes even helping
them to dress, as though they were great lords. Tales of sin were common. It was said there was not a monk in England who did not have bastard sons, and all of them lived lives of comfort, ease and gluttony. It was not only reformers who wanted these houses investigated, cleansed and altered, but conservatives too. Henry wanted Wolsey’s investigations to continue, and increase, seeing this as his duty to God and to England. Should we succeed in making Henry Head of the Church, the purification of the clergy was his wondrous, and awesome, responsibility.
And Henry welcomed it. He saw himself as a moral man, and the more tales he heard about monks and nuns living sinful, comfortable lives of vice, the more he became resolved to act. I rejoiced, for reform had been my aim for many years. I was sure God was looking on us with approval.
Suffolk and Norfolk might despise me, but they were never going to miss an opportunity to shout their support for Henry long and loud. The King’s favour was the vein that fed the heart of ambition. They would never pass up an opportunity to enrich their coffers by pandering to their King, but whilst they pranced about Henry, pretending to do all they could for the Great Matter, it was clear they were not committed to our cause. Norfolk had gone to de Borgho later, to tell him he would ensure that Henry would never take drastic action.