The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  Henry had become interested in St German’s work, and had him drafting legislation. This was just what we needed. We needed mechanics; ways to make Henry Head of the Church, not just in title, but in truth. The time for theory was done. We had to know how a monarch could assert authority over the Church if the clergy refused to obey. We needed Parliament to agree Henry’s unquestioned authority and set it in law.

  But there were some still wavering on the path behind us. My father and Norfolk were relying on Cromwell’s two sets of bills, and hoped to sound out the Lords about them before Parliament met. Neither liked Cromwell’s more radical ideas. Norfolk, indeed, was overtly hostile towards Cromwell. My uncle despised useful men, for they showed up his failings as dawn illuminates the world. Cromwell was just the sort of man Norfolk was bound to scorn; a self-made man from obscure beginnings. My uncle had loathed Wolsey for the same reason. Norfolk judged men on their blood. I preferred to assess them for their brains.

  I prepared myself well on Christmas morning, bathing in water heated by the kitchens and brought to my room by Jane and Margaret. Wallowing in water scented with rose and jasmine oil, I tipped back my head and draped my long, black hair into the tub. Henry loved the scent of rose upon my skin and hair. I adored the smell too, for it reminded me of Hever, of my mother, and a time of innocence and purity. Margaret gasped when I set my hair into the water, knowing that hot water opened the pores, exposing one to wandering fevers. But I chuckled at her horror. Doctors also advised not to wash in cold water, for it unbalanced the humours. What was one to do, then? Never wash, and become lousy as a prisoner of the Fleet? I lathered my skin with Spanish soap, infused with olive oil, and my wet hair was combed through when I emerged, pink and happy, from my bath. Rose and lavender perfume anointed my skin. Lavender was believed to calm an over-heated brain, and rose induced a merry frame of mind, both of which I thought would be beneficial.

  A smock of fine, cool linen was placed over my clean, perfumed skin, and linen hose that came up to the knees were pulled up my legs, tied to a garter. A warm kirtle of green brushed wool went over this, laced with ribbons of silk along my back. Over my kirtle went my gown, a glorious riot of Tudor green and white, which matched my kirtle. My hair was plaited and bound under a veil of white silk, sheer enough to display the raven sheen of my hair, and topped with a French hood lined with pearls. Separate sleeves of white silk, trimmed with silver fox fur, were laced to my gown, covering my arms and hands.

  It was important I looked the part. I was to go to Greenwich and celebrate with Henry. I could not join him for the main festivities, as a delegation from France was present and it should have been Katherine’s place to greet them. Henry was to welcome them alone, for Katherine could not be trusted and I remained the mistress; half-seen, half-hidden. Never present, never gone. I was to put on a private round of celebration in my quarters that night, and Henry had agreed to bring the new ambassador, Giles de la Pommeraye, there to meet me later.

  Despite our problems, I had reason to be joyous. At my request, Henry had allowed my sister to return to court. Arriving two nights ago, Mary had proved an immediate success with my ladies. And another wandering soul had also returned, for Bridget was with my household again, after having had yet another child.

  “How many do you have now?” I asked when she told me of her new babe. “I shall lose count!” For a moment, my heart drooped like one of the snow-bowed branches outside. The yearning for a child of my own was so strong. If I thought about it for too long I believed my heart would shatter. Bridget saw my face and touched my arm.

  “Your time will come, my lady,” she said. “And when it does, you will be the best mother that ever there was, for you have longed so for the blessing of children.”

  “You flatter me,” I said. “I would be willing to prove an adequate mother. I could never hope to live up to your standards.”

  Mary, too, was pleased to be back. “I was weary of Hever,” she admitted. “I will miss Catherine and Henry, but I am happy to be home.”

  “I, too, always thought of court as home,” I agreed. “I do not feel like myself anywhere else.”

  “And now you are truly home,” Mary said, gazing at the glorious furnishings that once had decorated Katherine’s chambers. “For you have the Queen’s riches.”

  “I have the Queen’s furnishings, I stand in her place, I even speak as Queen… but I am not the Queen.”

  “The time will come,” she said. “Do you remember when we were at Mass and you wrote that in your Book of Hours?”

  I smiled, remembering that time all too well. Henry had been at my side, feeling downcast. Under a picture of the Virgin and her child I had written Le Temps Viendra, The Time Will Come. It had been a message to Henry that he would have an heir and I would be the one to grant it to him… That seemed so long ago.

  “It seems that is all anyone says to me these days,” I said sadly.

  “You sound unhappy.”

  “I am frustrated,” I admitted. “But I am glad to have you here. There are many enemies surrounding us. It is good to know I have friends.”

  “You have more friends than you know,” Mary said. “And more will come, when you are Queen.”

  “The ones I have now I know are true friends,” I replied. “I would rather have people with me because they believe in our cause rather than those who will flock to us afterwards for prestige and power.”

  “Even false friends have uses,” said my wise sister.

  “True enough.”

  She frowned. “I have only a small gift for the King for

  New Year,” she said. “A shirt of velvet with a black collar, which I made myself. Do you think he will be offended? I have been trying to save all the money I can for Catherine and Henry.”

  “Henry is a sentimental man,” I said. “He has enough gold and silver. That you thought to make his gift yourself will mean more to him than riches.”

  “I wondered if I should give him anything,” she said. “If I should call attention to myself in that way… He is embarrassed to have me here.”

  “The past is done,” I said. “We cannot change what was. Henry needs to stop being ashamed. Once we have dispensation to marry, either from the Pope as he wishes, or from Parliament as I would want, there will be no more shame in your previous relationship.”

  “I am glad you think so. I would not want to cause you trouble by being here.”

  “You have never caused me trouble.” I put my hands on her shoulders and stared into her warm, brown eyes. “I am grateful to have friends. I have need of all of you.”

  “You will have me, sister, always.”

  Arriving at Greenwich that afternoon, I set to work. The feast for Giles de la Pommeraye was a resounding success. We feasted on Cornish carp and trout, steaks of whale meat and puffin roasted with delicate herbs. There was a dance afterwards, and as Henry was distracted, chatting away to de la Pommeraye, I took his men aside.

  “I have a favour to ask,” I said to George, Weston, Brereton, and Norris. They listened as I unfolded my plans to surprise Henry at New Year’s with a set of spears I had bought for him. I wanted them presented with a touch of theatre, to please Henry. They chuckled to hear my thoughts, and added their own ideas. After half an hour of discussion, we had formulated our plot.

  “Whenever I look for you, you are surrounded by admirers,” said Henry, stealing upon us as we tittered about our plan.

  “It is the role of the Queen to capture all men’s hearts,” said my brother. “And to show kindness and grace to those who worship her.”

  Henry clapped George on the back. My brother winced at the blow, casting a disgruntled look in my direction. I had to conceal my amusement. “Aye, you are right, George,” he said. “And my Queen will be the Queen of hearts. All men will envy me when she stands in her true place.”

  I basked in Henry’s love. At times I thought its glow could protect me from anything.

  Chapter Twenty-T
hree

  Greenwich Palace

  New Year’s Day 1532

  On New Year’s Day, I sat beside Henry as the traditional gifts were presented from his courtiers. Lords at court usually offered gifts in person, and some maintained this custom, but my presence meant many were reticent, and sent messengers in their stead. There were some, too, like my sister, who presented gifts at a distance despite being at court. She did not want to shame Henry, or me.

  Henry was grateful for her tact, and took more time than was perhaps justified to admire the shirt she had made. He was also pleased with a jewelled sword, presented by Edward Seymour, one of his esquires of the body and the older brother of Jane Seymour, Katherine’s great devotee. But his admiration of these presents was nothing to the look of boyish glee on his face when my gift arrived.

  “From the Lady Anne Rochford,” said my servant, using my official title, as granted by my father’s earldom. Henry’s men marched in. Brereton, Weston, Norris, George and Heneage all held a long spear in hand and were dressed in matching outfits of green. On their heads were caps of red velvet, so they resembled the merry band of Robin Hood, a character of myth of whom Henry was most fond. As they approached the dais, they fell to one knee in perfect synchronicity, thrusting their spears forward at his feet with a mighty cry.

  Henry laughed and leapt to his feet. “We merry men bring you weapons, Majesty,” cried George. “From our hands receive this gift from the fair maiden, Lady Anne, for only true hunters may bring such a gift to the greatest huntsman of all.”

  How pleased Henry was! He took the spear from George and examined it closely. They were Pyrenean boar spears; exotic, deadly, and exceedingly difficult to acquire. I had sent men to courts in far off lands to find a set that pleased me. The cost had been vast, but it was worth it. Henry was overjoyed. He insisted on testing the spears, jutting them forward as he lunged, and badgering Norris and Weston to set them into their armpits, so he could test their strength by leaning on them. He was so lost in his delight, in fact, he failed to note that Weston had come forward, waiting to give a gift from an absent noble.

  “My love.” I laughed as Henry started to discuss tactics of boar hunting with Norris, entirely lost in his exuberance. “Whilst I am more pleased than I can say that you liked my poor gift, there is another waiting.”

  Henry bounded up the dais to kiss me. “I have never been so pleased,” he said, his eyes shining like sapphires. “You must have gone to a great deal of effort to find such fine spears, Anne. As soon as we can persuade François to send over some boar, I will put them to good use.”

  Boar were all but gone from England. Once they had roamed the forests in droves, but now there were few left, if any at all. “You have uncovered the second part of my gift,” I said, laughing. “I sent a message to my friend, Marguerite de Navarre, some months ago, for I could not provide my hunter with spears and no boar! Your quarry will be in England by the middle of January, my lord, so you do not have long to wait.”

  “You think of everything. Always you are dedicated to my pleasure, as every good wife should be.” He kissed me again and sat down, motioning to Norris to set the spears beside him so he could gaze upon them. I could not have been happier.

  That was shortly to change.

  Young Weston, only that day made a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, stepped forwards and bowed, holding out a wooden box lined with red velvet. Inside sat a highly-decorated golden cup of exquisite workmanship. It was clearly a costly gift, and whilst lavish presents were often given at New Year’s, this cup was in a league all its own.

  “Remarkable,” Henry breathed, his hand reaching for the box. “Who sent this?”

  Weston quite obviously did not want to say. Sweat pearled on his brow and he ducked his head. “Katherine… the Queen,” he whispered. Henry’s hand faltered.

  A sudden strike of loathing coursed through my blood. Henry had forbidden Katherine from enquiring about his health, and had told her to stop sending him messages, which she had done, but he had not commanded her to cease sending gifts at New Year’s. Katherine was wily enough to have noted this slip and evidently had decided to remind Henry of her existence. The cup was extravagant. Everyone would think she honoured Henry, but what she was really doing was insulting him… flouting him… again!

  I glanced at Henry. His face was turning purple. I put a hand on his sleeve. “Gently, my love,” I whispered. “She wants a reaction. Do not give her the satisfaction.”

  But Henry could not hear me past the seething rage in his mind. “Get that thing out of my sight!” he shouted, putting his hands on the armrests of his chair and rising with menacing fury. Poor Weston scampered away and the audience ended abruptly as Henry was too upset to receive more gifts. I was not sure sending the cup back was the best idea, and went to Henry.

  “You want me to accept it?” he bellowed, his tone high with incredulity. “You… who were once so concerned about shirts would have me accept a gift from Katherine?”

  “Accept it as a gift from the Dowager of Wales,” I said. “Henry, do you not see? If the cup is returned, Katherine will send it again. She could send it to be presented at a formal function, where you would have no choice but to receive it. She will win, my lord, by making public statement of your relationship. Better to take it now, and forbid her to send any more, than to allow her to have it back!”

  Henry blinked. “You think she would dare defy me so obviously?”

  “I think her capable of anything.”

  He nodded. “Have it brought here. I will tell my scribe to write to her today and refuse permission for any further gifts.” He scowled. “But I will send it back, Anne. I want nothing from her. Everything that woman touches is laced with poison.”

  “Send it back after Christmas is spent, my lord. Then she has no good reason to send it again.”

  “Fine,” he agreed with bad grace.

  “She spoils everything, doesn’t she?” I asked, my voice sorrowful. “Just as you were so happy, my lord. I had been thinking how long it had been since I had seen you so merry, and then Katherine struck again, ruining everything.”

  “It is not ruined,” he said, taking me in his arms. “You made me so happy, Anne. You brought me a gift I had longed for without even being aware of it.”

  I smiled. “I saw you looking at an inferior set last year,” I said. “And took note of the hunger in your eyes. I have had men searching for that gift for a long time, but any effort was worth it to see the look on your face, Henry, when your men marched in.”

  “And you arranged all that too,” he said. “You think of every way to comfort me.”

  “That is my duty,” I said. “A wife should bring her husband comfort, solace and joy.”

  “I did not get a chance to present my gift to you,” he said. “But I have it here, in the next room.”

  “I cannot wait to see it.”

  He led me into the ante-chamber and I gasped when I set eyes on it; a glorious set of bed hangings, made of crimson satin and cloth of gold and silver. Lavishly embroidered with the Rochford leopard and reams of honeysuckle, it was a work of art. There was also a set of nineteen diamonds set in trueloves of gold, and twenty-one rubies and the same number of diamonds, set in golden roses and hearts.

  “Henry,” I breathed, hardly daring to touch the stunning cloth or winking diamonds. “They are magnificent.”

  It was more than magnificent, for it was another message to the world. Cloth of gold could only be used by royalty, and presenting me with bed hangings was hardly subtle. “For your bed, when you are my Queen, Anne,” he said, gazing at me with raw, naked longing. “And the more everyone tries to prevent that day, the more determined I am made to make it come sooner.”

  “I am no less eager,” I said naughtily. “To have you beside me in bed, with these hanging surrounding us...” I looked up, a mischievous smirk on my lips. “… And on that night, my lord, let this be all the cloth there is in that chamber.”


  He pulled me to him. As we staggered backwards, as he pressed me against the wall and unlaced my gown to bury his head in my breasts, I could feel a thrill of exhilaration not related to the busy hands of my King. Drawing him into contemplation of our marriage night, pulling him away from Katherine’s claws, excited me.

  Should I have thought of Katherine, and pitied her rather than despising her? Alone, at her snow-bound, mist-swathed house, without the comfort of friends and family, did Katherine pass Christmas with only the agony of loneliness to keep her company?

  A worthier woman would have pitied her. A more virtuous soul would have seen that Katherine’s gift was the desperate act of a woman who was increasingly removed from the world. But pity her, I did not. Not then. I did not see beyond the façade she constructed to hide a heart that was slowly breaking, shattering into sharp shards of ice, which cut into her soul, rupturing all her hope and joy.