by G Lawrence
“Perhaps.” Cromwell knew what I was suggesting. I would help him into the Chancellor’s robes if he would be my servant.
“Then you will come with me to the King, and put this idea to him?”
“I will, my lady, with a glad heart.”
There was a knock at the door. “My next appointment,” Cromwell said, casting an apologetic look my way. “Had I known I would be honoured with your presence, my lady, I would naturally have set the afternoon aside for you.”
“You are a busy man, with much to occupy you,” I said. “I shall keep you no more from others who need you more than I.”
“It is Sir Richard Page,” he said, speaking of a new addition to Henry’s household. In truth, the man had served Henry before, but more recently he had worked for Wolsey.
“I did not know you knew the gentleman,” I said.
“We became friends whilst we worked for the Cardinal, my lady,” said Cromwell. “But Page gave evidence against our old master and the King has rewarded him with several of Wolsey’s estates. That is what he has come to talk about.”
“I see,” I said, not wanting to speak of Wolsey more. I knew that Cromwell had been fond of the Cardinal, and since I had been instrumental in his fall, did not wish to tarnish our blossoming relationship by reminding him of the part I had played.
“But later this day,” Cromwell went on, showing not the slightest sign that he thought ill of me. “We will go to the King together, my lady.”
And go to Henry we did. Through reason, and with patience, we persuaded Henry to understand the benefits of having Tyndale on our side.
“He has been misguided,” I said to Henry. “My lord, think of how many men about Europe have had their minds poisoned by Katherine and her Imperial nephew. Tyndale is bleeding in their snare, but you can set him free. You have admitted there is much in his books that you found wise. Do not forsake a soul in need. Do not deny him your wisdom. You can set him on the right path, my lord. You can save him.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully. He was pleased by my flattery, and it was only partial flattery. Henry was a charismatic man, and a clever one. He could be lazy, at times, preferring others to take on tasks he would rather not do, but when he set his mind on something, he could convince almost anyone of anything. That was what made Katherine and her allies so frustrating to Henry, since they were amongst the few immune to his power.
“And you agree, Thomas?” he asked Cromwell.
As one Thomas falls, another takes his place, I thought. Until that moment it had not struck me that Henry had started to call Cromwell by his first name only after Wolsey’s death.
“I think there is much that is wise in what Mistress Boleyn says, Your Majesty,” he said. “Tyndale could be a valuable ally, and as long as this is handled carefully, no scandal would touch you.”
“That is why the lady needed you, Thomas,” Henry said with a catch of mirth in his voice. “My beloved is a passionate woman. This sometimes gets the better of her.”
Seeing I was obviously less than pleased about this comment, Henry laughed and came to me. “Do not glower, beloved. You know all I say is true as you also know I would not have you any other way. You are wise, for you understand your faults and take steps to ensure success in spite of them.”
“It is hard to hear one you love speak of your failings, my lord.”
“Failings are only disastrous if we see them not, my love,” he said. “That is what makes you so perfect. Even if you cannot master your flaws, you know how to best them, by working with those calmer and more prudent than your zealous nature would allow.”
“For you, Henry, I would do anything.”
His eyes glowed, soft and sentimental. So often I was hard and strong and bold. To find me pliant was a rare treat for Henry.
“I will consider all you have said,” he said, turning to Cromwell. “For now, I wish to take a turn in the gardens.” Henry led me into the palace grounds. We talked of nothing of importance, but to me those times were precious. So much of our lives had been swallowed by the annulment and politics. To talk of nothing was a relief.
Henry might have declared he would need time to ponder, but I knew we had won him. I could read Henry so easily. Vaughan was sent to the Low Countries with a brief to find Tyndale and offer him safe passage to England. We knew Vaughan’s task would not be easy or quick. Finding Tyndale would take time, for he was a wanted man in almost every Catholic country and had learnt to hide his person even if he would never conceal his beliefs. Cromwell was confident Vaughan could track Tyndale down, and was happy he had found further favour with Henry, through me.
“And if Chancellor More finds out that His Majesty has invited Tyndale to court?” asked my brother, drawing my thoughts to the present. “You know there is nothing More would like better than to burn Tyndale on a pyre of his books.”
“Thomas More is a man of the past,” I said. “He just has not realised it yet. I mean to have him replaced, George, by someone who can do his job better; someone who will cease to torture and persecute those who wish for godly reform. If More clashes with Henry over Tyndale, More will lose. Henry does not enjoy being told he is wrong. He has set his mind on bringing Tyndale around to his way of thinking, and nothing will stand in his way.”
“More is the King’s good friend.”
“So was Wolsey,” I said, picking up my embroidery and thrusting my silver needle straight through its centre.
Chapter Three
York Place
November 1530
“I send this letter to you, dear sister, with a grant of money. There is a gem in your possession that the King would have returned. It is a diamond, which he gave to you as a love token in the days long since passed. Although he has not told me why he would like this returned, I believe it is because the Great Matter is coming to an end, and there should remain no hint of scandal in his past relationship with you. I am sorry if this request brings you pain, or if you had a particular attachment to the stone, but I include this money as compensation. I know you will have use for it, to set aside for Catherine’s dowry, or for my ward, Henry’s, future.
Written with the hand of your one sister, and dear friend,
Anne Boleyn.”
I glanced over the letter several times. I had no wish to cause my sister grief. Henry had come to me with a face as red as the dead Cardinal’s robes to request that I do this service for him with discretion. Henry wanted to annul his marriage to Katherine on the basis that she had once been his brother’s wife, but his past relationship with my sister linked Henry and me in the same way. It would be taken care of with a dispensation from the Pope, if Clement would ever agree to our marriage, or with a dispensation from the English Church if the Pope refused. Either way, it would be set right, but there were plenty of people who already disagreed with our union. Henry did not want to give them further reason to object.
Although they require little motive to speak out, I thought. Our supporters were becoming more outspoken, but Katherine’s advocates were heard often at court too.
“I argued with Chapuys,” my father said as he entered my chamber that night, handing his sodden cloak to Nan Gainsford, my good friend who had recently married, becoming Lady Zouche. My father’s shoes were caked with mud and he brushed them against the rush matting, sending herb-bowed scents to dance in the air along with the stench of London’s muddy roads.
“About Katherine?” I asked. “Chapuys adores her, Father. He will never agree to her being set aside.”
“That, and about the proposal to reform the English Church,” he said, accepting a goblet of rich red wine from Nan with a grateful grunt. “Chapuys holds the same horror of reform as all men dedicated to Rome and its sinful ways. There has been talk of investigating England’s monasteries, and even Wolsey, who was by no means free of sin, agreed they have become lax, superstitious and wasteful. The investigations which started under the Cardinal are due to continue. Chapuys thinks, qu
ite rightly, the crimes of the Church will be laid bare, so he fears change.”
“And you fought with him? I hope it was not in public, Father. You know how Henry despises raised voices about court.”
“Fairly publicly,” he admitted. “I could not help it. Ever since I returned from Italy, Chapuys has been dying to speak with me. He thought we would be as good friends upon my return as we were when I left, but I am not about to pander to a man who weakened my position in Italy.”
Inwardly, I grimaced. Chapuys had not been responsible for the utter failure of my father’s mission to Bologna. My father just liked to think he was. Henry had sent my father to negotiate with Clement and Charles of Spain, but, in hindsight, sending the father of the woman about to displace Queen Katherine as an envoy to her nephew had not been a wise choice. My father believed that Chapuys had sent unfavourable reports to his master, but in truth, the Emperor had reason enough to think ill of the Boleyns without any encouragement. And now that my father was deeply involved with Cromwell in a plan to continue investigations into the practices of the English clergy, Chapuys had good reason to distrust him. Chapuys had gleaned we were opposed to him in matters of religion, and that, along with our resolve to depose Katherine, set us firmly on opposing sides.
Since arriving in England at the end of last summer, Spain’s ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, had proved troublesome. At first, he had been friendly and warm to both my father and brother. He had sought them out, invited them to dine with him, and had seemed as though he might become a friend. Me, he clearly did not like. Chapuys avoided me, knowing that if he paid me any respect, he would enrage his master. The ambassador admired Katherine, even loved her, I believe, and therefore had no reason to be amicable to the woman set to replace her. Chapuys was in close contact with Norfolk, who, although officially one of our allies, had more in common with him than with any of us, especially in terms of religion. No matter what protests my uncle made on Henry’s behalf, Norfolk was as conservative in his faith as Chapuys. We already knew Norfolk was playing both sides. I wondered what secret promises my uncle had made to Spain’s ambassador.
“I have men placed in the ambassador’s household who say Chapuys believes we are Lutherans,” my father said as he sat down, stretching his tired legs before the fire.
“There are some who believe any man or woman who questions the Church is a heretic,” I said. “They see our love for the faith and mistake it for hate.”
“Indeed, and will do all they can to stop us.” He grunted, lifting his goblet to his lips. “At least Warham does not stand in the way.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Warham would not stand in the way of a floating feather, Father. He is the most ineffectual man I have ever met.”
My father grinned over his goblet. “That is only because you have never met Clement.”
Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was a ridiculous creature, so scared of Henry that he almost pissed himself whenever he heard his royal footstep about court. Officially, Warham was Katherine’s advocate, but even during the disastrous trial at Blackfriars he had refused to speak against Henry. Not that I minded, but it is easier to respect foes if they possess some measure of courage. Warham had told Katherine, “ira principis mors est”, the anger of the prince is death, when she had informed him of her resolve to fight Henry, and the Archbishop had only angered her further when she discovered he had written two documents, one of which was a protest to the Pope, asking that Warham, as Archbishop of Canterbury and a papal legate, should decide the Great Matter in England. Chapuys, too, was deeply disappointed in the Archbishop. He believed the leader of the English Church should stand against its errant King.
Since Wolsey’s fall, Warham had become even more cowardly. The Archbishop was old, infirm and had no desire to spend his last days like Wolsey; under arrest, charged with treason for protecting the interests of Rome over those of England’s King. Henry wanted Clement to agree that Warham would decide the Great Matter, and I supported him. We knew if Warham was granted authority, we could get the result we wanted.
But if Chapuys was no friend to Warham, the ambassador was also less than impressed with the Pope. Many people thought Clement an ineffectual ditherer. I supported that assessment, so I could understand Chapuys’ frustrations, even though we obviously desired different outcomes. Chapuys wanted Clement to command Henry to set me aside. He also feared Clement’s wavering could cause England to break from Rome, as other countries had done.
His fears were not misplaced.
“Chapuys has written to Clement asking him to withhold permission for Warham to decide the annulment,” my father said. “He knows the Archbishop would never defy the King by himself.”
“Chapuys wants Rome to speak out for Katherine,” I said. “But Clement does not dare.”
“Not yet,” said my father in a grim tone. “But the time draws near when Henry must make a choice. He has the power to make himself Head of the English Church. All he needs now is conviction.”
I caught a note of reproach in his tone. “I have done all I can,” I said. “And I toil more every day, my lord father, make no mistake about that.”
“You must do more,” he said, draining his cup. “Remind Henry of the pleasures he will encounter when you are his at last.”
I held up a hand. “What happens between my future husband and me is not something for you to comment on, Father,” I said. “I am not a whore to be taught cheap tricks. One day I will be your Queen.”
“Even a queen must understand the realities of her situation,” he said. “You hold him in thrall now, but there are endless seas of women at court with powerful families more than willing to toss their daughters into the King’s lap to gain favour. Once you have lain with him, part of your fascination will be gone. Before you are Queen, you must keep Henry dazzled by your charms. Once you are Queen, you will bear his children. That will make you untouchable, but you must have allurements in your arsenal to use to keep his eye on you, rather than wandering over the young beauties of court. Only then will you be secure in your influence and power.” He chuckled at my stony expression. “If you will not listen to me,” he said, “Talk to Mary. Your sister knows how to hold a man.”
“Not well enough to get him to marry her.” I waved a hand. “I will talk to my sister, if that will prevent you speaking any more on this subject.”
My father laughed. “How I ended up with two daughters so different, I will never know. One who delights in lusts of the flesh, and the other who blushes at the mere mention of them.”
“You underestimate us both, Father, as usual.”
“I think not.” He rose. “I must away. Your mother is at court. She wants to see you tomorrow, if you have time?”
“I am never too busy to see my mother.”
“She will be gratified to hear that.” My father cast a glance about the chamber. “Are you expecting the King?”
I shook my head. “He has to dine with Katherine again.” I could not keep resentment from my tone. I loathed the fact that almost every night Henry dined with Katherine. It had to be done, Henry told me, for the sake of appearances, to keep the Pope and the Emperor happy, but I was all but done with worrying about the happiness of others. Was it not time for me to find some?
“It will not be long now,” said my father.
“I wonder anyone dares say that anymore,” I said. “Everyone has been saying those words to me for years, to no avail. Perhaps we tempt Fate by speaking them. We would better suit our purpose to declare it will be years before the King is free, and then Fate, ever a contrary mistress, will bring about Henry’s liberty.”
My father smiled, gesturing for his coat. “You always know how to jest, even in the darkest times.”
“I thank God every day that He granted me wit and humour,” I said. “They have served me as well as courage.”
“One more thing,” he said as he put his wet cloak on, grimacing as it brushed his neck. “Keep an eye on Fi
sher.”
“It is hard to miss him, Father. The man must have written a hundred tracts praising Katherine by now and he preaches in her name daily. I hear his braying voice even from miles away.” I frowned. “But why now, especially?”
“I have good reason to suspect that Katherine’s finest hound is communicating with Chapuys,” he said, fastening his cloak with a golden brooch displaying the Rochford leopard. “Chapuys is Katherine’s sun, Fisher her moon. Remove them, and the light is gone from her world.”
Chapter Four
Greenwich Palace
November 1530
“I want to examine the kitchen’s plans for the Christmas feasts,” I said to my friends, Margaret Wyatt and Bridget, Lady Hervey, as we walked the halls of court. “The French ambassadors must be impressed.”