The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  “I suspect you, Henry suspects me, you suspect George and George suspects you,” I said. “What a pretty circle distrust makes.” I sighed. “What is done is done, whoever the assassin was, it does us no good now to search for him.”

  “My children think I am a murderer, and that is all you can say?”

  “My future husband believes I might be capable of such a wicked deed,” I retorted. “Worry not, Father, you are not alone in grief for coming under the gaze of suspicion.”

  “What makes you think Henry suspects you?”

  “The way he looked at me… I do not believe he really thinks me capable. But with so many rumours at court, it was inevitable he might consider it.”

  My father narrowed his eyes. “You seem hurt.” He sounded surprised. Did my father, like so many others, think I was a creature devoid of a heart?

  “Are you not hurt?” I asked. “To see that sparkle of distrust in the eyes of the one you love… it is hard to bear. Henry has ceased to look on me like that now, but even to see it just for a moment was punishment enough.”

  I walked to the window. I did not want to see my father looking at me as Henry had. Not because I cared what my father thought of me, I was long past that. But because to see that suspicion again, echoed in another’s eyes, brought back pain.

  It was snowing. It was late for snow, but much that year seemed off-kilter. I was coming to realise that by standing so prominently in the public eye, I was becoming a focus for gossip, ill-feeling and blame. I understood in that moment, as I had failed to when all this began, why Henry had wanted me in the shadows. I had resented it then, but I wondered if it would not have been wiser to remain the ghostly figure behind the King. Should I have stayed back, not taking a hand in my destiny? I knew even as I pondered that I would not have been capable of such a feat. My temperament would not allow me to be a fainting flower, dithering on the border of momentous events. But my choice to emerge had a price. I had become a target. I was the stiff-standing archery butt on which was loosed the arrows of all my enemies, and Henry’s. I could not avoid their blows. I had to stand fast and still. I had to bear the pain.

  Henry had been long in the public eye. He was used to it, and he would never suffer the pain I would. Henry’s people loved him, and so I would take the blame. I would be the vessel into which their wrath was poured. I was Henry’s whipping boy, taking punishments in his place. It was a hard truth to face. To know oneself despised and reviled. To know the worst would always be believed of me.

  I felt my father’s hand fall on my shoulder. “Do not distress yourself,” he said in a gentle tone. “Henry does not believe you are anything less than perfect.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if that is true anymore,” I said. “He tries to change me. He points out when I am in the wrong, which he never did before.”

  “All people change when they wed,” said my father. “Your mother did for me. Perhaps you should listen to the King when he points out your failings, Anne. There are no perfect people. It might do you good to set your detractions to mending.”

  “I cannot alter myself now,” I said, noting that my father had only mentioned women changing for their men. “Henry fell in love with me for who I am.”

  “You do not have to alter everything,” he said. “The King has done much for you, Anne… and more than transformed his temper or mended his character. He is changing the world for you. Perhaps there is room for a little give and take.”

  “You sound like Mother,” I said, turning to him. “Where has my father gone?”

  He smiled and kissed my forehead. “Just think about it.”

  I did. I was not unaware of my faults, and if some of them could be altered, then so be it. But I would not dismiss anything that would deprive me of strength and resolve. In one matter in particular, I could not soften. What I was planning to do to Katherine was not virtuous, nor was it right. But I could not weaken now. I had to keep up the fight, or watch everything I had built wither and die, like a dried stalk of wheat desiccating in the autumn winds.

  *

  One crisp morning, I sauntered into court wearing a new gown. It was royal purple, trimmed with ermine, and decorated with fabulous jewels; another gift from Henry, and a costly one. It was also a colour of fabric and a coat of fur forbidden to all but royalty. Everyone stared as I crossed through court, just as I had intended. It was time they all understood who was Queen.

  Looking back, I marvel at the daring I showed then. At how many enemies I gained because they thought I was overbearing, haughty and proud. But those foes did not see my cocksure, arrogant façade was a mask to conceal my fear. I could not placate my enemies, nor could I run from them. The only option was to come out fighting.

  The Duchess of Norfolk was standing nearby as I swept past, and when she saw my dress she was enraged. “You think yourself royal, do you, niece?” she cawed loudly, striding out from her place by the window with her ladies to block my path.

  “His Majesty has decided I will be so,” I said, lifting my chin. I was not about to be cowed by my trout of an aunt. “And his will is law in England, as all men agree.”

  “You are not the Queen,” she said. “Nor are you a princess. You have no right to wear those fabrics.”

  “Then call for soldiers, Aunt, and have them explain to His Majesty why his express wish that I wear this dress is being questioned.”

  “You are not the Queen,” she repeated.

  “I care nothing for Katherine,” I said. “Nor do I care for you, Your Grace.”

  “You little fool,” she said, her lip curling. “When the King is done with you, he will set you aside. You will leave court in ignominy and disgrace, just as you deserve. And where will you fall? Onto the shoulders of the illustrious Boleyns?” She chuckled, displaying wasted teeth. “That line of descent your father had made up, it is laughable! Trying to pretend merchant stock are royal blood? Never will you be, either through marriage or through the ties of true, noble, royal blood. I have more royal blood than you, girl.”

  “I will be made royal through marriage, Aunt, but you should remember it can be dangerous to stake a claim to royal blood… As your late father discovered.”

  “You dare speak of my father?” she shouted.

  “I dare to speak the name of any dead traitor His Majesty has rightfully removed from his realm,” I said. “Your father was no true man. He was a witch, an emissary of Satan, and if any man requires more proof of his wickedness, it is shown in the harpy of a daughter he vomited into the world.”

  Behind me, Bess Holland stifled a giggle. She despised Elizabeth. The feeling was entirely mutual. Part of the reason my aunt loathed me was that my uncle’s mistress was included in my retinue. My aunt thought it a grievous insult, but then, Elizabeth Stafford thought everything was about her. She believed she was the centre of the universe, and the rest of us mortals merely revolved about her. Actually, Bess’ position had been granted as a favour to Norfolk, one of the few I had not regretted. I had been suspicious of Bess to begin with, but I was starting to enjoy her company. She had a bright, fresh wit and a ready mind. And seeing her near my aunt, whose former beauty was worn thin by bitter resentment, I could see why Norfolk preferred Bess to his wife.

  My aunt glared at Bess, but did not dare say a word against her. When they were at Norfolk’s estates, Bess took precedence, organised the household and shared his bed. There were even rumours that Norfolk and Bess had beaten Elizabeth when she had protested about this. I could believe it of Norfolk, but not, now I had had a chance to know her better, of Bess.

  My aunt’s face went red as the harvest moon. “On the day you are tossed from court, Anne Boleyn, I will be there to watch you crawl away.”

  I started to laugh. “You think the wrong way round, dear aunt. Pack your bags. You are about to be banished from court.”

  I went to Henry. It was not hard to get him to dismiss my aunt. Ever since her father’s betrayal, Henry distrusted Staffords o
n principle, and the Duchess was too close to Katherine for him to be at ease with her. She left, cursing the Boleyn name, and mourning she had ever had the misfortune to become related to me. My uncle was none too pleased that his wife had been cast out. He had no affection for her, but her banishment was a slight against his house.

  “I told you to keep her under control,” I said when he came grumbling in, huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning about the trials I had caused him. “And if you cannot tame your wife, Uncle, I will do it for you.”

  “Do not think to instruct me.” His voice rumbled with anger.

  “I will instruct anyone I please,” I said. “Think yourself lucky I did not ask the King to include you in this banishment, Uncle, for you have done precious little to aid our family in the past few months.”

  “Precious little?” he screamed. His hand twitched on his walking stick. I could feel how he yearned to turn it on me.

  “Aye, precious little. And if you want to reap any reward when I am Queen, Your Grace, you will make a greater effort. I will remember my friends when I come to my throne, but never will I forget my enemies.”

  Norfolk gaped at me in astonishment. “You will be the ruin of the Howards, girl.”

  “Perhaps so, but I will be the saviour of the Boleyns.” I turned, calling my ladies to my side as I left the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  York Place

  Spring 1531

  The day before Parliament ended, Thomas More insisted to the House of Lords that the rumours Henry only wanted an annulment for “love of some lady” were false, and the King’s wish to separate from Katherine was due to his scruples about the legality of his marriage. Leading a deputation into the Lower House, More invited the Clerk of Parliament to read out favourable verdicts from the universities who had supported Henry’s arguments.

  Perhaps this should be surprising. More had always been on Katherine’s side, and it was quite clear he disapproved of me, but he was merely playing true to his principles. More was a humanist, therefore bound to honour both his King and the opinions of other men. This did not, of course, apply to reformists, for he viewed them as heretics, and in More’s eyes, heretics had no worth, no honour and no rights. He had also been refusing to meet with Chapuys, as he knew the ambassador wanted to discuss the Great Matter. More was attempting to show Henry that he remained his servant, but I harboured doubts about how far this loyalty would stretch.

  If More was sitting on the theological fence, offering support to both royal parties, Fisher was not. He was positive that the affair of the soup had been a plot to silence him. Henry’s savage response had led many to believe that he was genuinely horrified, and had played no part in it, but others believed Henry was either complicit, or had ordered it done.

  I had asked Henry to command Fisher not to attend Parliament. He was far too dangerous as Katherine’s advocate. Fisher, however, refused his King’s demands and came, saying even if he suffered one hundred thousand deaths, he would speak in the Queen’s defence, and only with more openness as people tried to silence him.

  Parliament ended that year with More our apparent supporter and Fisher our bitter enemy. But whilst Henry was elated to have his friend’s assistance, I knew it was not true support.

  “He said those things only because as a humanist he must uphold the sacred rights of his King,” I said. “Why can you not see, Henry? More will never support you. He adores Katherine and he worships Rome.”

  “You imply that you believe he does not love his King.” Henry’s voice was menacing.

  “I think he does love you,” I said. “But as a friend, not as a king. His loyalties are to his principles, Henry, and if you stand against Rome, More will turn on you.”

  “You do not know him,” Henry said. “More is my man.”

  “More believes you are an infant in need of guidance.”

  “You have said enough.”

  “I only say such to open your eyes, Henry. More is loyal to Rome. His heart is papal purple.”

  “Enough!” he screamed, slamming his hands on the table. I dropped my eyes, knowing I had gone too far. Henry stormed from the chamber without looking back. I did not go after him. I could not. If I ran to him then I lost the power I had over him. It was the first serious fight we had had for some time… not since Wolsey had we fought so hard and bitter. That was how I knew how deeply Henry loved More.

  Henry came back the next day, and we avoided the subject. We worked on our plans for extensions at York Place, and by the afternoon, found we were giggling like children over our charts.

  “I feel better than I have for months,” Henry said, smiling. “You always know how to distract my mind from troubles.”

  “I am always at your disposal,” I said. “In any way you need me.”

  “I need no other but you, Anne.”

  *

  The search for Tyndale was still going on in the Low Countries.

  Not unexpectedly, Tyndale proved hard to find.

  Cromwell’s agent, Vaughan, trawled the Low Countries in search of Tyndale, sending out letters to cities where the reformer was rumoured to be, and visiting Tyndale’s known associates, trying to get a message to him. We had received word from Vaughan in January, informing us that he had failed to locate Tyndale, but Vaughan had received a letter, saying Tyndale would not come to England due to “the bruit and fame” of events, which Cromwell and I assumed was related to the persecutions More was inflicting on suspected heretics. Vaughan also discovered that Tyndale had written a response to More’s Dialogue. In March, he uncovered a copy and shipped it to Cromwell, but added he was not sure Henry would receive it well, for it spoke gently of the clergy, and everyone knew Henry was not feeling genial towards the Church.

  That April, Vaughan wrote again. A messenger had approached him in Antwerp, and led him to a field outside the city walls. There was a man there, standing shrouded in the early morning mist. As Vaughan approached, the man smiled. “Do you not know me?” he asked. “My name is Tyndale.”

  “But Tyndale!” Vaughan exclaimed. “Fortunate our meeting!”

  Tyndale said he had desired greatly to talk to Vaughan since receiving his missives, but told Vaughan he was distressed that Henry had not liked his Prelates, as all he was trying to do was warn the King of the perils of the clergy and the abuses they practised. He had thought, he said, he was showing himself to be a true and loyal subject by opening Henry’s eyes, and had suffered much for his beliefs. He had warned Henry about Wolsey, Tyndale said, and was it not now proved that he was right? He had proved himself loyal, but been rewarded with hatred.

  “Doth this deserve hatred?” he asked Vaughan. “The King can be so unkind to say that it is not lawful for men and women to read the Scriptures in their own language. God commanded that His Word be spread throughout the world. Why are the subjects of His Majesty so dangerous to be denied the Word of God in a language they can understand?”

  They had a long conversation in that foggy field as Vaughan tried to persuade Tyndale to come to England and Tyndale refused.

  “Tyndale said that he neither would or durst come into England,” wrote Vaughan. “Albeit that Your Grace would promise him never so much the surety: fearing lest, as he hath before written, your promise made should surely be broken, by the persuasions of the clergy, which would affirm that promises made with heretics ought not to be kept. After saying this, he seemed to grow a-feared of standing with me as afternoon turned to night, and made his way down a road leading from Antwerp. I have no doubt that he doubled back, and Antwerp is where he lives now. Hasty to pursue him I was not, because I had some likelihood to speak shortly with him again. To explain to Your Majesty what, in my poor judgement, I think of the man, I ascertain Your Grace, I have not communed with a man more sure in himself, or with more dignity.”

  Henry ripped the letter in two in his frustration. Tyndale clearly did not understand the temper of the King of England. He was supposed to be fla
ttered by Henry’s attentions, and come home, scraping and bowing as a humble penitent. But Tyndale did not trust the promises of his King. There was nothing more likely to irritate Henry. His word was sacred. To have it distrusted was a grievous insult.

  “It is not you Tyndale distrusts, my lord,” I said, watching Henry’s ruddy face turn purple. “He makes it quite clear that he believes your clergy would undermine you. It is not the King of England Tyndale distrusts, it is England’s Church.”

  “He slights me in many ways!” Henry shouted. “He calls me unkind for my response to his scandalous works, and believes I am a weak-willed wretch, liable to change my opinions as often as the tide alters direction!”