by G Lawrence
“And the Holy Nun speaks out as well,” said Cromwell. “Barton declares what has happened of late is an affront to God, and should the King leave Katherine, in God’s eyes he would no longer be King.”
“The nun treads on dangerous ground,” I said. “That is treason.”
“She, like the Observants, believes God and the people will save her.”
“They are wrong. God gave Henry his power. It is up to the King to decide who lives or dies in his realm.” I paused. “You will keep an eye on the Observant Friars?” I asked. “Henry will deal with the Holy Maid, if he has to, but I worry about the Observants. They have great influence.” I paused. “I have also been sent a missive from Richard Lyst, a Franciscan lay brother of Greenwich. He is alarmed about the conduct of his superior, John Forrest, who was once Katherine’s confessor.” I called on Jane to bring the parchment to Cromwell and he took it, placing it into a leather pouch on his waist.
“I will keep an eye on them, my lady,” Cromwell agreed. “But we cannot ignore Barton. The people adore and revere her.”
“Fortunate, then, you were granted two eyes, my friend… So you can keep watch on many things.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Greenwich Palace
Spring - Summer 1532
As the dust began to settle on the broken Church of England, and everyone attempted to right themselves after such a spin, I undertook a new task, one that delighted me as it annoyed one of my enemies. It was a marriage, between one of my ladies, Frances de Vere, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, and my cousin, Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey. Surrey’s mother, the Duchess of Norfolk, was opposed to the match. Frances was a beautiful young lady, and a talented poet, of whom I was most fond, but she had no fortune. Norfolk, much to his wife’s disgust, went along with the plan. Truth be told, he was relieved, for I had mentioned the possibility of marrying his heir to Princess Mary, and for all her royal blood, Norfolk had no wish to become embroiled in Mary’s affairs, especially as Henry was less than pleased about his daughter’s support for her mother.
Surrey was happy with his beautiful bride, although somewhat affronted by her striking lack of dowry. “It will be made up to you in grants and offices,” I told my young cousin. “And you will gain my friendship from this union.”
Surrey, even though only sixteen, was wise enough to see the value of my friendship. The couple were deemed too young to engage in full marriage, and were to live apart for some time. Surrey was a precocious young man, talented at poetry even in his green years, and Tom took him under his wing. They began a long project to translate Petrarch’s sonnets and were often found in company with one another about court. Surrey was also great friends with Fitzroy. The young Duke of Richmond had been kept somewhat apart from court whilst he was young, as London was not a healthy place for children, but after meeting him at Surrey’s wedding, I encouraged Henry to allow him to attend court more often.
“At least at the entertainments,” I said, watching a shadow of protectiveness steal across Henry’s eyes. “Your son is almost a man, Henry. He is thirteen and has told me himself that he yearns to see more of you.”
I did not worry that Fitzroy might challenge me or any children I might have. However proud Henry was of his son, he could only be proved righteous in God’s eyes by bearing legitimate heirs. Besides, I liked the lad. He was polite, handsome and well-mannered. He also seemed to accept me, and made an effort to be my friend, knowing it would please his father. There were rumours that I meant to poison Fitzroy, although what good that would have done me I do not know. Sometimes, hearing these rumours, I wondered if people thought I was an English Lucrezia Borgia. At times I wondered if she, like me, had been innocent and yet defamed.
Henry agreed. “I will tell my son you spoke for him,” he said. “So he will know what a friend he has in you.”
Both Surrey and Fitzroy were elated to be allowed to visit court more often, and Fitzroy sent me a beautiful mastiff as a gift.
If I was pleased that my efforts to gain favours for my supporters were going well, I was less pleased with the soon-to-be confirmed Chancellor. Audley was acting Chancellor, but to my mind, was not acting like a Chancellor. I had thought that the clergy’s submission and More’s resignation would make England safer for reformists, but I was wrong.
John Field, a man arrested long ago by More for heresy, appealed to Audley, saying More had done him much wrong. Field described how he had been imprisoned in More’s house, and held for eight days longer than was legal. More had made him appear in the Star Chamber and sent him to the Fleet, even though no sentence had been passed and no heresy charge had been confirmed. Field spent two years in the Fleet, and said that More had visited his cell, often late at night, to search him. No banned book was ever found, although I’ll wager More was astounded to find that one of his own works, The Supplication of Souls, was. Field had been moved to Marshalsea prison, where he was robbed by his guards, and had fallen ill. Delivered to friends to recover, Field was hale in three weeks, and wrote to Audley to complain. More, meanwhile, arranged with the bishops Stokesley and Winchester to ship Field back to prison and Audley did nothing. I objected to Henry, pointing out all the abuses More had inflicted on Field, and eventually he was released.
More had burnt ten men in his reign as Chancellor, and Audley, unfortunately, continued on the same path. A young, charming scholar named John Frith was arrested. He was one of the men who had survived incarceration in the Christ Church fish cellars when Wolsey was in power. I had pleaded for him at the time, and had been dismissed by the fat bat. This time, I swore Frith would be protected and fortunately, Cromwell agreed with me.
Cromwell went to Henry and told him Frith was a learned man who had been led astray by Tyndale, but deserved another chance. By this time, Frith had managed to gain release, as Audley could not find, or fabricate, enough evidence against him. There was word Frith meant to escape England and head for Antwerp.
“Frith is a good friend of Tyndale, Anne,” my brother warned. “It could be dangerous to support him.”
“I have stood aside too long,” I said, casting my eyes to the window where the gilt-wash of the evening sun flowed over skies of mother-of-pearl. “The King is now aware of the abuses of the clergy and too many good men have fed More’s fires. Men like Frith are useful. He is a fine scholar, even Gardiner thinks so, and the new Bishop is no supporter of reformers! Cromwell and I will convince the King to grant clemency.”
Henry was impressed by the reports he heard, and wanted to know more about Frith. “We are in need of good scholars,” I said to Henry. “Frith is one such man. Show mercy, my lord, for Audley has been swayed by More, and if they find further evidence, I have no doubt it will have been fabricated to condemn this young, promising man.”
“I will show clemency, if he will give up his reliance on Tyndale.” Henry’s face was sour. He was aggrieved to even have to speak Tyndale’s name.
That summer, Henry began work on York Place, aiming to make it his principal residence in London. He acquired and demolished neighbouring properties to construct a huge garden and park, built a crenulated gatehouse with ornate, chequered brickwork, and covered the outside walls with Tudor roses, heraldic emblems, and terracotta busts of Roman emperors. Stained glass, smothered with Henry’s badges, shone in the windows, and Henry was having new furniture made for all the rooms. The gatehouse crested the road, joining together two parts of the palace, and contained one of the grandest long galleries I had ever seen.
“Even France has nothing to this!” I exclaimed when we were able to walk through it. “Here you can have seats, Henry, and line the walls with the portraits of your family.”
“Of our family,” he corrected, taking my hand to spin me about as though we were dancing. “To the north there will be privy gardens,” he said. “One for you and one for me, linked by arbours covered in honeysuckle and grapevines. And there will be orchards where I will grow cherries just for yo
u.” I chuckled as he ran a hand down my gracile throat. He knew how I loved sweet fruit.
“I will build magnificent apartments,” Henry continued. “Most should be complete by the end of this year… and I will demolish Kennington Palace. We will reuse the bricks, and make lavish chambers for visiting ambassadors.” He gazed on his work, proud and content. “This will be the greatest palace in Europe. Bigger than anything Charles or François have… and more beautiful.” Henry paused. “I have engaged Andrew Wright to become Serjeant Painter,” he went on. “He will work on this palace, and on my ships, carriages and on scenery for our entertainments.”
“I hear Master Holbein is soon to return to court, too, my love,” I mentioned. Holbein had been away for several weeks on personal business, but the list of those who desired his skills was growing in his absence. “I would like to employ him. Never have I met a more talented artist. I would have your court become the marvel and envy of all others.”
“Ah,” said Henry. “To that end, my love, you should meet one of my new Grooms of the Privy Chamber. He hails from obscure stock, but he is so skilled at music and dancing. I mean to have him perform for you soon.”
“I cannot wait to meet him,” I said. “If this young man has impressed you, he must be indeed a master of his art.” Henry smiled and squeezed my hand.
“What is his name?” I asked as we walked on through the long gallery.
“Master Smeaton,” said Henry. “Although he prefers being called Mark.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hampton Court
Spring - Summer 1532
“It is a minor offence,” said my father. “I would like you to intervene on this priest’s behalf.”
The priest in question had been arrested for a coining offence, and was due to be hung, drawn and quartered.
“There are too many priests in England,” I said. My father gaped at me as though I had magically become a bird.
In truth, I knew little of the case. It was one of corruption, that I knew, but little else. With the Observant Friars communicating with Katherine and causing trouble at court, and other religious orders speaking out against Henry and me, I was in no mood to pander to priests. Besides, Henry was affronted by the priest’s corruption. Coining offences were always taken seriously by my beloved as his face was on every coin. Calling their honesty into question insulted his integrity.
“He has not even been stripped of his titles!” protested my father, aghast. “He cannot be punished as a layman.”
“The King decides who will be punished and who will not, now, Father,” I reminded him. “Henry has heard the case and he has decided. I am in no temper to beg concessions for clergymen who would soil their own names and reputations. They have given us enough trouble. Now that Henry is truly Head of the Church, they will find all such corruptions are at an end.”
My father left, shaking his head, but I cared nothing for immoral priests. Why should I work to protect them when there were true men of faith who needed my help more? Despite this small incident, and the fact that Henry’s people blamed me for the priest’s death, I was merry. Why should I not have celebrated the end of the old, corrupt Church and the dawn of the new? And it was not only for the faith I rejoiced, but for myself, as with his new powers firmly in hand, Henry began to speak openly about marriage.
I was not the only one caught up in Henry’s enthusiasm. It was all the court could speak about. Henry had always spent lavishly on me, and, in his deep pleasure, he increased his gifts. He wagered vast hands against me in card games of Pope Julius, even when he knew he would lose, and started to take a vested interest in my wardrobe. “My Queen must be stunning,” he said when I asked him about this sudden interest in my gowns, and beamed when my pale cheeks flushed bright with happiness.
It was not only in England Henry wanted me seen as Queen, however, for that summer talks about a meeting with François began in earnest. Henry wanted to present me to François. If François could be persuaded to accept me, we would have public, royal support for our marriage.
“Once France is our friend, my love, the Emperor will never dare to wage war.”
Never had I seen Henry so confident. He was quite giddy with his new power and I rejoiced to see him so bold.
Henry started to plan my coronation, calling carpenters and builders from all over England to start renovations on the royal apartments in the Tower of London. “I am not overly fond of that palace,” Henry said as we pored over the sumptuous drawings. “After all, it was where my beloved mother lost her life.” He sighed as I squeezed his shoulder. “But it is customary for monarchs to spend the night before their coronation at the Tower,” he went on. “Even sovereigns must bow to tradition.”
Cromwell, too, was busy. He was working on legislation to protect Henry’s powers from opponents at home or overseas. Our marriage seemed imminent, but we were attempting to hide the proposed meeting from Chapuys and his master, and were having trouble agreeing terms with François. Henry required as triumphant an entrance to France as possible to secure my status, but François was reluctant.
“Because his wife is Charles’ sister,” I sneered.
“Indeed, forced on François in return for freedom,” Henry added. “He has no affection for her.”
“I wish Claude were still Queen,” I said, thinking of my gentle, former mistress. “She was fond of me. This Spanish fish, Eleanor, speaks out against me because she is Katherine’s niece.”
“But she is François’ wife,” said Henry, a stern note entering his voice. “If he orders her to meet you, it will be done. All wives must obey their husbands, by command of God.”
I did not like the way he was looking at me. “If Eleanor disobeys François,” I said, moving briskly on. “I would ask for Marguerite de Navarre, François’ sister, to head the ladies. She was my mentor in France, and we were always good friends.”
“I shall request her attendance in any case,” Henry said, that sullen look of disapproval drifting from his eyes. “I want all of France to witness your entrance, my love. What a day it will be!”
“Let us invite Giles de la Pommeraye hunting this summer, during progress,” I suggested. “We will woo him.”
“You could charm any man into anything, my Anne.”
Negotiations went on quietly about France, but even when François suggested his mistress, the Duchesse de Vendome, in his wife’s stead, I felt as though nothing could touch me. The Duchesse was unacceptable as, were she and I seen together, everyone would view me as a mistress, like her, rather than a queen.
One day, when we stood in the royal chapel, hearing Mass, I scribbled two lines of verse in my Book of Hours and turned the page to Henry. Above the inscription was a picture of the Annunciation, where a dark-haired Mary, who looked like me, received news of her blessed child from the angels. Henry’s eyes roamed over the picture and my verse. It read
By daily proof you shall me find,
To be to you both loving and kind.
It was my promise, my vow, and the fact it was written under a picture of the Annunciation was another oath. I would be a good wife, better than Katherine had ever been, and I would bring Henry the child for which he longed. Henry took my hand. When he turned his eyes to the altar, they shone with tears.
I was not the only one engaged in poetic endeavours as spring turned to summer, for a book began circulating at court. It was a game, of sorts, where one person would pen a poem, and another would answer it, also in verse. Sometimes the contributors used their own compositions, but much of the time Tom Wyatt’s verses were employed. The poetry was about courtly love, and also real relationships. Some verses were scathing about the loyalty of women, and some retorted, attacking the fidelity of men. Some were ballads of devotion, others caustic attacks on the impossibility of true love ever being found at court.
Sometimes poems were anonymous, usually indicating that either a woman had written that verse, or the poet did not want to be
identified. Surrey contributed, along with his sister, Mary Howard, and his wife, Frances de Vere. I was sure Bryan and Tom were involved along with their friend, Anthony Lee. Lee was a constant companion of Tom’s, and although he was supposed to be courting my friend Margaret, he was more often to be found with her brother.
“Are you considering taking a husband?” I asked my friend.
“That depends,” said Margaret.
“On?”
“On whether my beau is truly interested in marrying me, or if he would prefer to wed my brother.”
“However fetching your brother might look in a bridal gown, Margaret, I am sure Lee prefers you.”
Margaret laughed with me. I was sure Lee was interested in my friend. Indeed, most men were. Margaret was a rare beauty, and rarer still, a beauty with a brain. So many women who possess the grace of physical attraction do not seem to bother with improving their minds, but she did.
As I watched the book make its rounds amongst my friends, I learned much about it and its contributors. Tom never wrote his name, but his style was easy to recognise. Lady Margaret Douglas, Henry’s niece, played when she visited court, and some of the younger Howards, such as Surrey’s younger brother Thomas, also joined in. Mary Shelton was the book’s guardian. When it had been added to, the tome would be returned to her, and she chose who would be the next contributor. It was one of the engaging, intellectual games played at court, and although there were many men involved, I thought the women wrote exceptional verse, worthy of attention.