by G Lawrence
“He fears the power of the English clergy,” I insisted. “That he met Vaughan at all is surely a sign that Tyndale trusts his Prince? The man has been avoiding everyone, for years. That he came to meet your man, despite the danger to his life, is a sign of his faith in you, my lord. He is not talented, perhaps, at understanding how to express his fear clearly, but that is true of many men.”
“Nor is he talented at understanding the great mercy and benevolence of his King!” Henry shouted and marched from the room.
I took a deep breath and looked at Cromwell. “What can be done?”
“Nothing, unless the King wills it.” He sighed. “I am not surprised Tyndale was distrustful, my lady. Chancellor More would go back on any promise made to a man he believed to be a heretic, so Tyndale’s assessment is not in error. I have told Vaughan to keep trying. We will leave the King alone for a while, and see if more can be done later to mend the wounds Tyndale has cut into his flesh.”
“Do all you can. I will attempt to soften the King’s anger towards Tyndale.”
I glanced at the door from which my love had stormed. It seemed all I saw of Henry these days was his back.
*
I did not succeed with Henry in the matter of Tyndale. Henry was hurt, his self-image bruised, and he could not comprehend why Tyndale would distrust him. I did, as did everyone else, but to Henry, no matter how many times he broke his word, he always believed it was sacrosanct. It was a fantasy. But Henry’s fantasies were his reality, and when one shattered, his world trembled. I tried hard to get him to understand but it did no good. When Henry turned on someone, they could never again have worth in his eyes.
One of the reasons I did not do well was because we fell out over another affair. In April, Henry heard that Princess Mary was ill with hysteria. She had just turned fifteen, and I have no doubt the friction in her parents’ marriage was the cause of her sickness. As a child Mary had been a hale, healthy girl, but I had heard lately that she suffered from irregular, painful monthly courses, was often brought low with headaches and sometimes suffered fits of lowness and anxiety.
Many believed this was due to hard penances of fasting which she endured for her sins. Many more believed she was affected by her parents’ troubles, and some, naturally, thought I was poisoning her. Henry was alarmed by his daughter’s illness, and I was disturbed by the depth of his love for Mary, which was painfully obvious.
Mary was a danger. Henry avoided speaking about her with me, for he knew that I became angry to hear his love for her. Henry thought this was but women’s natural envy… Perhaps there was some truth in that. But it was more than simple jealousy. It was fear.
Mary had been the recognised, lawful heir to the throne for many years, and Henry’s sole, precious proof that he could sire legitimate children. Even though he was seeking to rid himself of Katherine, Mary could remain legitimate. Marriages that were dissolved, but judged as made in good faith, could carry the stipulation that the children born from that union were regarded as legitimate. If our marriage bore no children, or only girls, Mary could be placed above my children in the succession. I was also afraid that Mary might use Henry’s love for her to reconcile her parents. Henry was a sentimental man and it was not impossible that Mary might find a way into his heart, using her influence to restore her mother. And Mary, to my mind, was thinking along the same lines, as she sent a request, asking to join her parents at Greenwich.
“Why should the Princess come here?” I asked Henry. “Katherine will poison Mary’s mind, Henry, and use her against us!”
“My daughter is loyal to me,” he growled. “As every daughter should be.”
“Should not all subjects be loyal to their King?” I asked. “And yet, even now, my lord, you know there are many who are loyal to Rome or Katherine above you!”
Henry left without saying a word. Two days later, my father arrived with a tale to tell. “You should have a care, daughter,” he said, “that your scolding does not send the King into the arms of his wife.”
My father told me that when Katherine heard about Mary’s illness, she was distressed, but when dining with Henry, an event that to my disgust still occurred almost every night, Katherine found Henry friendlier than usual. He resented the way I had spoken to him, and found his wife gentler company than his mistress. Emboldened by his clement temper, Katherine asked that Mary be brought to Greenwich so she could nurse her. Katherine had heard about our argument. Indeed, our fights were famous about court. I have no doubt Katherine’s love for her daughter was one reason she requested this, but it was not her sole motive. This was a chance to score a point against me. Getting Henry to go against my wishes would have been sweet to Katherine’s bruised heart.
But, to my satisfaction, and Katherine’s chagrin, Henry refused. He angrily told Katherine that she could go to Mary on her own, and “you, madam, can stay there for all I care!” he shouted.
But Katherine was not a soul to submit. “My place is with you,” she replied calmly. “No matter what ties of maternal love I have for my daughter, no persuasion could induce me to leave my husband.”
Henry went straight to Norfolk, and complained about both women in his life.
“Apparently, although the King had much to say about both of you, he said that you were not like Katherine,” my father reported. “He said that Katherine, even in anger, had never said an ill word to him, whereas you had said many.”
A cold hand of ice clamped hold of my spine. “And yet Henry wants to be with me,” I said, trying the hide the trepidation in my voice. “And not Katherine.” I scowled. “And what does he mean, she never said an ill word against him? Does he forget Blackfriars? If Henry’s memory has dimmed, I have not forgotten. He would do well to cease to linger on the days when he and Katherine were merry and kind to one another. He should listen to me, not her.”
“But you must be gentler,” said my father. “You rage when you lose your temper, Anne. The King is not used to being abused by anyone, least of all by the women in his life.”
“How can I keep my anger restrained when Henry delays and dithers?” I demanded. “I have shown the patience of a thousand women, my lord father. When the King speaks warmly of Mary, or Katherine, how am I to suffer it, knowing they are the barriers which block my path?”
“The waiting will not go on for much longer,” he said. “The King is now Head of the Church.”
“And does nothing with that title,” I spat bitterly. “He fears other men. He hides behind his title as he does behind his throne!” I chuckled without humour. “He is even afraid of that blundering maggot, Clement! How any man could be afraid of such a witless worm, I know not, for I am not afraid of the Bishop of Rome!”
“Hush, daughter.” My father’s face was troubled. “You speak too loud and wild. If the King was to hear what you say…”
“Let him hear!” I shouted. “Let everyone hear! It is only from my speaking loud and bold that we have achieved anything! The King should be grateful for my feral tongue, for I have brought him to a place of greater power than ever he knew before!”
My father realised there was nothing to be done, and left me to fume alone in my chambers. I marched back and forth, my hands clenching into fists. Henry had complained about me? About me? His disloyalty stung. For him I had faced ridicule, despair and slander. Katherine had stood in the way of everything he wanted… and yet he would complain about me? Terror and anxiety made my rage deepen.
Unlike me, Katherine always kept her temper, displaying neither care nor angst. Katherine wafted through court like an elegant peacock, her head held high, always collected, always gracious. One morning, when Norfolk saw her emerge from her chambers, he noted to the Marquess of Dorset that Katherine was too tranquil to be believed. The Marquess replied that this was because the Queen was sure of the righteousness of her cause. Norfolk was heard agreeing with Dorset, saying “it must be owned that the Devil and no other must have been the originator of this wret
ched scheme.”
If even Norfolk, a man who reviled audacity in women, and especially in wives, could praise Katherine, then just imagine what all those who loved her said. It was easy to lapse into the hands of dread. I was so angry that the next time I saw Henry I lashed him hard.
“I will leave!” I shouted. “I will go, Henry.” I walked away as he tried to approach me. “Do not touch me,” I hissed. “I cannot bear to have you close. You are a false heart, my lord.”
He went to my father, with tears in his eyes, begging him to mediate.
“The ambassadors are laughing about it,” my father said. His face was a stern cliff of granite. “You do the King no good, Anne, by berating him. You make him look weak. Any man governed by a woman will always appear feeble in the eyes of other men. If you want him to be strong, cease this behaviour. Talk to him. Do you think he will want a harpy for a wife? If you do not tread carefully, you could lose him.”
“Henry loves me,” I said, although there was a warble of panic in my voice. “He would never abandon me, not now, not after all we have been through.”
“The mind of the King is inconstant,” he said. “And so too can his heart be. Give him no reason to turn from you, and he will remain loyal. But do not let pride and fear govern you.”
“I will speak to him.”
“If you intend to speak kindly, that would be a good idea.”
My father had a point. Henry was my sole protection in a world which hated me, and we were stronger together. Henry was distrustful when he arrived in my chambers in response to a polite missive, but relaxed as I mildly enquired about his day. As he settled into genteel conversation, I made my move.
“I am sorry if I offended you, about the Princess and her mother.” Henry blinked with surprise. It was a rare event that I was the one to apologise. “I see how low Katherine brings you, Henry, and it riles my temper, but I did not mean to lash out at you. When anger strikes, we often unleash it on the innocent, rather than on the guilty. I love you more than my immortal soul, and so, as often happens, you are the one I turn on. I should not have done so.”
His face broke into a great grin. “My Anne…” he said, holding out his arms. I went to him and put my cheek against his russet tunic. “To hear you admit wrongdoing is something precious.”
“We hurt the ones we love,” I said, looking up. “I will try to temper my emotions. I should not have hurt you.”
“I would not have you any other way, than how you are.”
“Not even if I were a touch more docile… a sliver more temperate?”
He chuckled. “Then you would not be my Anne,” he said. “My love is a woman of fierce emotions and blinding passions. And I am sorry, too. I know that you fear Katherine, and hate her for the ills she has given me. You think, at times, I forget all that she has done, but I forget nothing.” He kissed me. “Now,” he said. “Let us forget this lovers’ squabble and think on other things. Show me the drawings for York Place, we will discuss them together.”
Renovations were going on day and night as Henry’s builders worked by candlelight to get their master’s vision completed. I had been disappointed that we could not add the leopard badges of the Rochfords onto the palace, but Henry would not allow it. “You will have a new emblem, as Queen,” he said. “And when you are Queen, your badges will be everywhere. But at this time, it would not be appropriate.”
Because a mistress should not be seen. She is little more than a ghost, I thought. Only on the day we are married will he cease to be ashamed of me.
But if there were none of my emblems at York, there were none of Katherine’s either. It was the one sanctuary I had where Katherine’s pomegranate could not taunt me. Everywhere else I walked, I could feel those fruits staring at me, whispering I would never be Queen. In York Place, that voice was silent. It was only the ghost of Wolsey who lingered there.
Later that summer, Katherine went to visit her daughter. She went alone.
*
In May, we received another message from Vaughan. Cromwell came to York Place, thinking it might be a brighter notion that we vet the missive together, rather than taking it straight to Henry.
Cromwell included a copy of the letter he had sent to Tyndale. “I doubt not but that the King’s highness would be much joyous,” Cromwell had written, “to be inclined to mercy, sweetness and virtue.” Vaughan wrote that Tyndale had been moved to tears. “What gracious words are these!” he exclaimed.
Vaughan reported that after reading Cromwell’s letter, Tyndale had been much altered. He proposed a deal; he would come to England if Henry would agree to produce a Bible in English for his people. Tyndale also offered never to write another word, or to submit himself to torture and execution, if the King would consent.
“What strength of spirit this man has.” I shook my head in admiration, wishing I could be as brave as he.
“And yet,” said Cromwell. “Tyndale could not resist adding something.” He nodded as I glanced up. “Cast your eye over the last passage, my lady.”
I groaned as I read. Tyndale had said to Vaughan that “if those things which I have written be true, and stand with God’s Word, why should His Majesty, having so excellent gift of knowledge in the Scriptures, move me to do anything against my conscience?” Tyndale was all but saying if Henry did not agree with him about the arguments raised in his books, then he was not as well-versed in Scripture as he thought himself.
“Tyndale could not resist a little thorn to keep the rose company,” Cromwell said.
“The King will not be pleased to read this.” I narrowed my eyes. “Can you tell His Majesty of this letter, but word it a little more appealingly?”
“I can relay the message and leave out offending passages, but the central argument will have to stand. Tyndale will not come to England without hope of an English Bible.”
“A worthy goal,” I said. “I have asked the same of His Majesty, for I believe God intended us to understand His Word in our native tongues. But you are right. The King does not like demands.”
“Unless made by you, my lady.” Cromwell ran a finger down his jaw. “His Majesty will not publish a Bible in English on these terms. The King must believe the idea comes from his mind. Being held to ransom by Tyndale will not endear him to either the production of an English Bible, or to the man who makes the demands.”
“Do the best you can, Cromwell.”
“I will, but I think we must accept Tyndale will not come to England, and will not aid the King’s cause.”
“It sorrows me to agree, but I think the same.”
“He could have been useful.”
“However useful he might have been, Cromwell, he is not the only useful man in the world. Tyndale, I can do without. You, I am coming to think, are irreplaceable.”
“You are too kind, my lady.”
“No,” I said. “I am honest.”
Chapter Thirteen
York Place
Late Spring 1531
In May, as swallows winged into England, and frosty mornings started to surrender to balmy days, the peace of court and even the din of London were shattered by Fisher’s preachers shouting night and day.
The illegality of Henry’s annulment and the sins of the King were their sermons. Not that they said directly that Henry was a sinner, of course, but the examples they took from the Bible demonstrated to everyone of whom they spoke.
“You might have thought being poisoned would make a man more cautious,” I mentioned to Margaret Wyatt as we wandered through court hearing Fisher’s men outside honking like rutting donkeys.
“That is surely why he is so zealous,” she murmured. “Fisher says he will only be quiet when he is dead.”
“Fisher is but one man,” I said.
That phrase had become almost a motto in the Boleyn faction. The trouble was it was not true. One man was Fisher, yes, but when his preachers spilled into the streets, all speaking with the same tongue, Fisher was transforme
d into many men. His friends were becoming troublesome, too. Reginald Pole’s tract against the Great Matter had found its way to England, and it was not only insulting, but inflammatory. There were sections which seemed to want to incite revolt. Henry stormed against his cousin in private, and sent men to confiscate the pamphlets, but he was aware that copies were secretly circulating amongst his people and at court.
I was worried about Henry. His moods swung from brilliant, glaring happiness to sunken, hollow misery. He grew angry with astonishing speed, and could lapse just as sudden into mournful, childish tears. He was still not sleeping well, and I no longer had to rely on others to inform me of that. Henry’s eyes were puffy and dark shadows of grey and purple hunched under them. As a natural response to lack of sleep, his already virile appetite became insatiable, and he was taking on a noticeable portliness.
Henry had always been a large, powerful man, but his appetite had not endangered his waistline when he was young, for he would ride and hunt all day, stopping only to best five men at tennis in the evening. The vast quantities he had consumed then had been burned away by his activities, but now he was reading more than riding, and did not hunt more than twice a week. No one but his fools dared to comment on it, but Henry was getting fat. He was also becoming hard to read, for one moment he was merry and the next morose. My love, in tiredness, anger, fear and despair was becoming a veritable rainbow of emotion with all colours and moods simultaneously present and possible.