by G Lawrence
I lay back on my bed and a thousand thoughts of all that had passed in the years since I returned to England came to me. I remembered Henry’s eyes lighting on me when he noticed me for the first time. I remembered the wedding of George and Jane, and Will Carey’s eyes, warm with a love stronger than poor Jane would ever know, sparkling, as he gazed upon my sister. I thought of being reunited with Tom, on that wicked, stormy night, and of his soft footfall outside my door. I recalled the visit I made to my uncle’s house, and the sight of his bedraggled children. I remembered fights with Norfolk and my late troubles with my father, Mary’s face when I told her I was her son’s guardian, and Henry, standing before Katherine at Blackfriars, announcing he would choose her above all other women. I thought of Wolsey, dying in the knowledge that his friend had abandoned him to the wolves of court and Francois’ glittering eyes, lingering on me as we danced before Henry.
My mind lingered on memories of my beloved. How he had found me crying beside a pool, lost in horrors of the past. The day he had come to Hever, seeking me as his wife, and conversations in rose gardens, where our words had been as hushed as the murmuring trees. I recalled the confusion and pain in his eyes when I had announced I could not be his wife and would never be his mistress, and the power of his love when I promised to take his heart and keep it safe in my hands. I remembered the first night we had been together, and every one since. The more I thought, the warmer I became. His love had become the blood in my veins, in my heart, racing through my body to bring sustenance and life.
It seemed impossible that this day had dawned. It felt unreal. I expected any moment that Katherine would enter, chiding me and her other ladies for allowing her to rise without aid. If I closed my eyes, I might find myself in Northumberland, married to Henry Percy, or trying to steal soft and silent from Wyatt’s bed, as his secret mistress. For all the happiness these simpler lives might have granted, I had no regret. Love and ambition had brought me here. Pride, too… for was it not thoughts of being discarded, terror I was of small importance, that had kept me hanging on to the slightest thread of hope all these long, long years?
At times, I almost believed I could feel that thread against my palms… a whispering sensation; silk on skin. I wanted to clasp my hands about it and hold it fast, but this strand was treacherous. The tighter it was clutched, the quicker it disappeared. The thread of hope was slim… but it was there, fragile and delicate in my hands. Perhaps today it should feel thicker, but it did not.
No, I could not regret. I was about to be joined before God to England. The child swelling in my belly would become a king. What more could I ask for my son? And if your babe is a girl? Asked a traitorous voice in my heart. I shivered, but consoled myself that when my child was born, no matter the sex, I would have proved my fertility. I had fallen pregnant swiftly the first time. I had no doubt if it was a girl, I could conceive again rapidly.
God will not abandon you, Anne Boleyn, another voice said. You have done all you can for the Church. He sees that.
I wondered if that was all the Almighty saw. There had been times, especially of late, where I had thought on my actions with remorse. Not for displacing Katherine, for that would have always happened. But for the way I had treated her and her daughter, and for encouraging Henry to mistreat them too. A queen should be temperate, kind and gracious. I had not behaved in that way, especially not of late. I had been a king; ruthless, cold, and with an eye on self-preservation.
If you feel bad, the voice said. Then alter it.
The voice was right. This coronation was the start of a new life. I had gained this position through fire and determination, but soon I would be a mother. I did not want my children growing up ashamed of me. I wanted to be someone they could look up to and that could only happen when I could gaze on myself with contentment. Today was the last day that spite or fear would control me. I would start a new chapter, allowing the best in me to be seen, rather than the worst. It would not happen overnight, but every journey begins when a person decides to take a step.
Mary stirred in her sleep and breathed one word, “Will” as she turned over. My heart ached. It was not often I thought of Carey. It had been years since his death. I was more often given to thinking of myself and my problems, than of Mary’s enduring grief. That was another area I needed to pay more attention to; to Mary, to my mother, to George. My father, I would attempt to forgive for his years of treating us like pawns in his private games, but the rest of my family needed me. When I am Queen, I thought. A new husband can be found for Mary. There would be many willing to overlook the stains of her past in light of having a sister as Queen. Mary could take her pick and I would ensure she lived in comfort with a rich husband, but also a kind one.
I thought of all that had happened over the past two weeks. They had been busy, ridiculously so, for Henry wanted me crowned long before our child arrived. Although this was part of Henry’s concern, I knew some of it was also because my coronation would stamp his authority upon England, the Pope, and the Emperor. It was Henry’s way of showing he was confident in his power, but whether that was true or not, I was unsure. Henry blustered and exaggerated when he felt trapped or defensive. Were I an utterly cynical being, I might believe this coronation was an elaborate mask worn to attempt to conceal Henry’s lingering fears; that all of this was one grand boast to the world, shouting that he feared nothing, when in truth he feared everything.
But I knew, too, Henry had good reason to be grateful to me. Guilt tore at him for the way people thought about me, looked at me, whispered behind my back and shouted slights to my face. I had gained even more enemies than him during this struggle, for people always prefer to blame the outsider, the newcomer, the alien. I was the fortification he had constructed about the castle of his heart. Henry understood the sacrifices I had made for him and this coronation was his way of making an apology. Men endure such hardship with conversation at times. If Henry could not make up for all I had suffered in words, he would apologise through action.
Nobles from up and down the country had been brought to London and given tasks. Even enemies had been summoned. Henry knew the best way to ensure attendance from those who were reluctant was to insist that they took on an official part in the celebrations. Lords were to be knighted, fortunes made and noble houses enriched. Pageants had been arranged for my procession through London, and barges had been brought to Billingsgate. These boats were all around seventy feet long, glittering with gilt and polished, carved wood. They had covered cabins for passengers, eight oars a side, and when brought to Billingsgate, they had been hung with flags, bunting, gold tissue and delicate little bells that tinkled joyously in the wind dipping along the Thames.
Musicians had been called to court from every household in England. I had asked for Henry’s man, Smeaton, to play on my personal barge, as the man was a genius. There was no instrument he could not play, and his voice was fine, rich, and low.
I dressed with care, bathing my skin in rose perfume and donning my gown of cloth of gold. As I stepped out on that glorious morn, I blazed like the sun.
The procession of boats reached Greenwich that morning, but it took a full two hours for them to turn about, bustle into order, and anchor off the palace steps. I walked to my barge with my ladies and looked on with satisfaction. It was beautiful. My emblems of the crowned white falcon and the Rochford leopard glinted gold and silver in the sunshine, alongside my initials entwined with Henry’s. We set off with a light wherry leading the procession which bore a mechanical dragon, whose hands and feet could be moved by members of Henry’s household. They toiled under its red-scaled body. Its mouth shot out fire in cresting, long bursts, making the crowds gathered along the riverbank shout and point. On the boat were men dressed as wild men, who hooted and threw fireworks. They flew into the air, exploding into crescent waves of cascading brilliance.
Following, at a safe distance, was the Lord Mayor of London’s barge, its deck swamped with milling aldermen
and councillors dressed in scarlet, drinking wine. Next in line was the bachelors’ barge, hung with cloth of gold and silver, which concealed musicians. Music spilled from that craft as though it came from the heavens, drifting over us as we were rowed down the Thames. Swans joined the procession, sailing out from the banks and coming alongside the boats to beg for scraps. Many people were happy to oblige them, tossing bits of bread and sallat leaves into the lapping waters as they floated past. Beside the boat of the Lord Mayor was a barge carrying a huge representation of my crowned white falcon, perched on red and white roses bursting from a golden tree-stump. Growing on a green hillside, this stump was surrounded by young virgins playing and singing sweetly. It was a picture of glory and fertility.
My women were so numerous that half of them had to be carried in another boat. Henry’s barge was full of his guards garbed in their finest array, with minstrels and royal trumpeters playing. My husband’s barge was rowdy; hooting, jesting and ribald riddles floated from it as his men surrendered good manners as a sacrifice for unbound merriment. After Henry came the courtiers’ barges; one hundred and twenty large crafts and two hundred small. Banners of beaten gold, and the streaming standards of nobles, billowed in the wind and flashed under the sun. Cannons fired from the city walls and from all castles in London as we passed. We were a heady, magnificent sight to behold.
As we rounded the river bend at Wapping, gunners in the Tower let loose a deafening salute of a thousand shots. The fleet hovered off Tower Wharf as over our heads the gunners made enough noise to wake the gods of old from their eternal slumber. My barge pulled into the Wharf, where I was met by the Lord Mayor, Tower officials, and heralds, and we were brought through the Postern Gate into the belly of the Tower. Henry, who by ancient tradition was supposed to be out of sight, ignored custom and greeted me at the steps. He helped me from the gilt-painted platform and pulled me into his arms. I laughed, for that embrace had not been part of the ceremony.
“I could not resist,” he whispered. “You have never looked more beautiful.”
“I have never been happier,” I said. “Perhaps that is what you see.”
Henry led me into the Tower and thanked everyone for their kind attentions. He was aware that many there harboured mixed feelings, at the very least, about this day. But the procession had achieved what we wanted; it had drawn out the people of London. They had witnessed Henry’s court, all his nobles, all the ladies, gentlemen, counts, earls and dukes uniting… to honour me. Seeing this spectacle, it would be hard for any man to protest that Henry’s officials or court disagreed with his separation from Katherine. Almost every noble in the land was there, trailing behind me in a wake of glory. And any noble mind suffering doubts could see every man, woman and child of London and beyond, emerge to honour me. Even detractors like Suffolk and Norfolk could not look on those crowds of cheering, waving people, and believe Henry did not have popular support.
It was a mirror, held up in two directions. The nobles saw the people support Henry as the people witnessed the support of the nobles. Each become proof for the other, as each became proof for Henry. Mirrors usually tell the truth, but this one was shone on Henry’s people to make them see what he wanted them to see. A strange mirror, sparkling in the sunlight… A mirror that displayed no truth but Henry’s.
This was not all he showed them. My procession was larger than Katherine’s had been so many years ago. Henry wanted no one to miss this. I was his true Queen.
And the splendour of the day did not end. Henry had kept me carefully away from the Tower over the past few weeks, as he wanted his renovations to the royal apartments to remain a surprise. The royal chambers were in the south-east corner of the compound, between the White Tower and the curtain wall. There was a suite of seven lesser rooms, a magnificent new great chamber, and a dining room.
When Henry escorted me inside, I could not help but gasp. Hung with his best tapestry, as well as cloth of gold and silver, my great chamber shone with a flash of light that was blinding. The walls were whitewashed, although little could be seen of them past the reams of lavish tapestry. An opulence of comfortable cushions were arranged by the fire, along with a vast throne padded with brown velvet, surrounded by dark, polished oak and sparkling golden tassels. Outside I could see my privy gardens where a little bridge crossed the Tower moat, offering access to London. The gardens bobbed and danced with bright, gay flowers and trees bearing blooms of pink and white. There had been plans to construct a new gallery, but Henry explained Cromwell’s men had run out of time, so the old long gallery had been updated and decorated. There hung portraits of his family, and one of me, opposite Henry’s own portrait at the head of the hall.
“Magnificent,” I breathed.
Henry took my hand and started to dance with me. There was no music but the beating of our hearts until Smeaton took up his lute and began to play.
I spun about, laughing, as my ladies took hands with Henry’s men. I was happy, lost in my own merry world. In Henry’s arms I turned and twisted. My laughter rang out, bouncing from the walls and reverberating through the air. It was like the first sound at the birth of the world, a world not born in pain, with screaming and blood, but brought into existence in unbound, unfettered joy. It was the sound of a heart freed of all cares, and of a soul finally at liberty from chains of hatred, wrath and agony.
In Henry’s love, I was reborn.
In Henry’s love, I was brought to glory.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Tower of London and Westminster Abbey
31st May 1533
I looked upon the bonfire the gardeners had made at the back of my privy gardens. A pile of silver ash, topped with ungainly, twisted branches sinking slowly into the flames. Green-silver moss and red-gold lichen curled and surrendered to the fingers of the fire. Wood smoke danced against the pale sun. It was early in the morning. The men tending my gardens had bobbed into awkward, apologetic bows when I had emerged from my chambers into the cold air. Men were sawing off branches, pruning plants and raking the soil.
They had not expected I would rise so early, or be found immediately in my gardens. They were afraid I would be displeased to witness their work, but they were wrong. I had always loved gardens. I had always known, too, that beauty and order are born from chaos and strife.
“Make yourselves not uneasy,” I said, wrapping my warm cloak about me. “I like to see the honest toil that creates such beauty.”
I strolled about them. Uneasy, hasty glances, and touch of hand to cap or head followed me. Sunlight glinted through the tree branches as flowers started to uncurl, offering their tender faces to the sun.
“Why do you cut certain branches and not others?” I asked a young lad who stood at the base of a ladder, taking armfuls of sawn wood from his master above. The boy stared at me, clearly at a loss to know what to say. A voice from above my head spoke for him.
“We manage the light, Your Majesty,” said an old man from the top of the ladder. He tried to bow as I glanced up and almost toppled.
“Please,” I laughed. “Do not attempt to bow. For all the honour it might bring, I should not wish to be crowned with a man of England!”
He chuckled. “Thank you, my lady.”
“So you manage light?” I asked. “For what purpose?”
“We tell it where to shine, so fruits and flowers might grow.”
“A worthy task,” I said. “I too have the same aims, good master. If I could wish myself anything at this moment, I would wish myself a gardener.” I smiled as his wrinkled face fell to confusion. The boy looked frankly baffled. “You do good work,” I said. “Ensure that the cherry trees are well cared for, good masters. They are my favourites.”
“A worthy fruit and a glorious blossom, my lady,” said the old man. “We will tend them carefully.”
I walked on. Could I be a gardener not of plant and soil but of truth and love? Could I bring radiance to the souls of England’s people, bring them the Bible
in their own language, and take them from the darkness of Rome’s power? Gardeners told light where to shine. Perhaps I could become a gardener of truth.
*
Much happened in the two days before my coronation. Knights of the Bath, including my good friend Francis Weston, Cromwell’s man Richard Rich, and others connected to my family, were knighted in ceremonies which stretched over two whole days. The knights undertook their vigil in the White Tower, spending a night in prayer before their ritual bath at dawn. They stood, naked, before Henry as he knighted them, welcoming them to the hallowed order. Henry also dubbed fifty knights bachelor, including Cromwell, Norris, Brereton and the Earl of Derby.
On the 31st, we made for Westminster. This was my eve of coronation procession. Once, when I was a girl, I had watched Henry’s, standing with George and Mary on a balcony overlooking London’s streets. We had marvelled at this golden-haired Adonis. Little did I know then that one day I would become his Queen.
I remembered that day so vividly… The smell of the streets, the palpable sense of excitement… I remembered the shower of rain that had fallen on Katherine, and her young, happy face, staring up at us, smiling. Had she known then that the dark-haired waif on the balcony would one day take her crown, perhaps she would not have waved. Perhaps that sweet smile might have frozen on her face as she saw a ghost of the future staring back at her…