The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  I shook myself. What was I thinking? I was becoming lost in the past. I tried to set Katherine out of my mind, but even as I attempted this, something of her lingered. Katherine was my own personal ghost; a little shadow haunting my footsteps. Whenever I turned, she seemed to flit about a corner. When there was silence, I thought I could hear her, laughing at me.

  I busied myself with getting ready and by midday, most of the court was assembled. The skies were clear and bright; a sheen of blue silk topped with a brooch of bright sunlight. The Lord Mayor was roaming, checking everyone was in the right place. He had already ridden through London, making sure the pageants and their players were prepared. We were supposed to leave at two of the clock, but it was close to five by the time everything was ready. The servants of the new French ambassador, Jean de Dinteville, were to lead the procession. There were twelve of them, in sapphire hued velvet with yellow and blue striped sleeves. White plumed feathers stood proud in their smart azure hats, and their horses were in trappings of blue sarcenet powdered with white crosses.

  Behind them were the Gentlemen of the Royal Households, marching two by two, then nine judges, in scarlet gowns and hoods, wearing gold collars with the emblem SS on them. The judges, in the general confusion, had been unable to get into place in time, and had to slip into position as we started to trail out of the Tower. After them were the new Knights of the Bath, then Members of Parliament and Government, the Royal Council, and peers and magnates of the realm. Chancellor Audley rode beside Jean, the French Ambassador. The Lord Mayor rode just behind the deputy Earl Marshal, and at his side was the Constable of England… none other than Suffolk.

  There were three hundred men marching before me; a massive demonstration of solidarity and acclaim.

  Behind them came my litter. My gown was filmy white, and I wore a coronet of delicate, sparkling gold. The litter was white satin, hung with white cloth of gold inside and out. The two palfreys that pulled it were pale of coat, and covered with white damask, which drooped to the ground, whispering against the roads. My long, dark hair was loose and uncovered, stretching to my waist, and creating a stunning contrast against the pure white that surrounded me. My eyes, jet black and wide with happiness, sparkled like gems. Over me was a canopy of cloth of gold, held aloft by the Barons of the Cinque Ports. Then came my palfrey, dressed in white, along with twelve ladies in striking crimson, and two carriages decked in red cloth of gold. They were followed by seven more riders, two more carriages, and thirty gentlewomen on horseback, dressed in black velvet. Behind them strode the King’s guard in rich coats decorated with goldsmiths’ work, and all the servants of the court came last, dressed in their masters’ liveries, processing like a gay company of flowers on the march.

  You might have thought the world and his wife were there, but there were notable absences. Mary of Suffolk had refused to attend, apparently on grounds of ill-health, although I did not believe her. Her daughter, Frances, was also absent, along with that sour trout, the Duchess of Norfolk. Since the premier duchess of England was not in attendance, I had given the honour of riding in the first carriage to Agnes, and with her rode my mother and the Dowager Marchioness of Dorset. Other significant absentees were the Earl of Shrewsbury, although he had sent his son in his stead, and Thomas More, who had flatly refused. Even though Gardiner had sent More money to purchase a suitable gown for the occasion, More would not be moved… But he took the money.

  Even though More had sent a letter, acknowledging Henry’s right to make me his Queen, Henry had been furious. More expressed a desire for Henry to be happy, and wished me good health. No matter what he had written, his absence was taken as an insult by many, Henry not least amongst them.

  We rode through the streets to the sound of cheering, but as we passed, I saw some men had to be nudged to remove their caps. Amongst the shouts of support there was, too, a curious noise, as though people were laughing, not from happiness, but scorn. I was informed later this curious, cruel sound came from some who were apparently amused by the entwined initials HA. Some jesters read this as “ha!” and shouted that taunt over the cheering. Given that I had expected many people not to cheer for me at all, I was not displeased. The majority did their part, and if they applauded me out of fear of Henry, or for duty, it mattered not. Soon, I would show them I was worthy. And there were many who shouted support for me out of genuine affection; those who saw me as England’s best hope for reform, or who had profited from my charity. They brought me hope.

  London was arrayed in her finest that day. The streets were freshly gravelled and painted cloth and tapestry hung from all the houses. My falcon badge was everywhere, as though overnight London had become an aviary. At Fenchurch Street I was greeted by a procession of children dressed as merchants who welcomed me to the city. This showed not only my links to men who peddled books, both accepted and banned, but also my heritage. One of my ancestors had been London’s Lord Mayor, and Londoners were welcoming me as one of their own.

  In Gracechurch Street, the Hanse merchants, men deeply involved in the cause of reform, had constructed a triumph arch, designed by Holbein, where a tableau of Apollo stood upon Mount Parnassus, surrounded by the nine Muses, all playing sweetly on their instruments. Under this was a white marble fountain, from which Rhenish wine flowed. I stopped to hear choirs of children sing for me, and to look upon pageants, depicting Diana or Artemis, the ancient goddesses of chastity and hunting. There was one in particular I paid close attention to; a depiction of Artemis aiding her mother to give birth to her twin, Apollo. This was how Artemis became the protector of childbirth and labour. With my confinement edging ever closer, this spoke to me.

  The Muses gathered at the base of the tableau held up cards with poetical verse in Latin on them, and played musical instruments. I was welcomed as the bringer of the new, Golden Age; the herald of a perfection soon to come. I was the eternal spring, the source of all love and happiness. As I paused, watching and listening to their sweet music, they began to sing.

  Anna comes, the most famous woman in all the world;

  Anna comes, the shining incarnation of chastity.

  In snow-white litter, just like the goddesses,

  Anna the Queen is here, the preservation of your future.

  Here, too, was a castle constructed in wood, painted to look like stone. I was reminded of Henry’s castle at the Field of the Cloth of Gold as I gazed upon it. About its walls were painted screens, showing clouds and heavenly bodies. A hill rose, topped by a tree stump where Saint Anne, the mother of the Holy Virgin, sat with her three daughters; the blessed Virgin with her child in her lap, Mary Salome beside her husband and two saintly sons, John and James, and Mary Cleopas with her four children and husband. As my litter stopped, I was greeted by the Virgin who called out, “most excellent Queen and bounteous Lady!”

  She went on to explain the tableau, saying that it was the hope of London and England that I would uphold the fertility of my namesake.

  “For like as from this devout Saint Anne,

  Issued this holy generation,

  First Christ, to redeem the soul of man;

  Then James th’ apostate, the th’ evangelist John;

  With these others, which in such fashion

  By teaching and good life, our faith confirmed.”

  The verse went on to express hope that my issue would preserve England against all potential horrors, and defend the faith. As the song came to an end, men hidden inside the castle structure began to work its machinery. The stump on the hillside at the back of the castle began to pour with a flowing mass of red and white roses. One of the painted clouds in the backdrop opened, and from it a white falcon flew, taking a perch on the flowers. An angel descended from the heavens to place an Imperial crown on the falcon’s head, and as the crown was placed, a choir of children began to sing.

  “Honour and grace be to our Queen Anne,

  For whose cause an Angel Celestial

  Descendeth, the falcon,
white as the swan,

  To crown with a diadem imperial!

  In her honour rejoice we all,

  For it cometh from God, and not of man.

  Honour and grace be to our Queen Anne!

  It was usual, in paintings and art, to show the Annunciation in the form of a white dove coming to Mary. Here, the dove became my falcon, and the sterile stump was the barren house of Tudor that I would rejuvenate. The message was that our child was blessed and would welcome in a new age. My role as the sacred mother was being drummed into the minds of Henry’s people by comparing me to Saint Anne and her daughter, Mary.

  Near to the Conduit in Cornhill, there was a tableau of the Three Graces. Each came forth in turn, saying their graces were all to be found in me. At the Great Conduit in Cheapside there was a fountain from which plumed red and white wine into different basins and from which the people of London were happily and generously serving themselves. Here there was much joy. People were dancing, linking arms with each other and skipping as music played.

  We rode past the Eleanor Cross, decked in flowers and blooms and branches, as well as ribbon and silk. Near to here I was welcomed by London’s Aldermen, who saluted me and offered me a purse full of gold, as a gift.

  “I give most humble thanks,” I said to them. “From both my heart and mind.”

  At the Standard in Cheapside, which was dressed with images of angels and coats of arms, more ancient gods awaited me. Jupiter granted Paris a golden apple through his messenger, Mercury. Paris was to give the apple to one of three fair goddesses; Juno, Pallas Athene or Venus. There was much laughter as the goddesses competed to take the apple, but it was granted finally to Venus. Paris turned to the crowds, extended a hand to me, and sang.

  “Yet to be plain

  Here is the fourth lady now in our presence,

  Most worthy to have it, of due congruence,

  As peerless in riches, wit and beauty,

  Which are sundry qualities in you three.

  But for her worthiness, this apple of gold,

  Is too simple a reward, a thousandfold.”

  A child, dressed in white, came forth to announce that I did not require the apple, for there was another reward for me, the most beautiful and virtuous of all women. A model of the Crown Imperial was brought out and handed to me. The crowds cheered as I took it, and a choir of children stepped forward. Their song proclaimed that I was the blessed child of God, that I was a paragon of perfection; wisdom, chastity and fertility bound in one form. The last verse ran thus,

  “The golden ball

  Of price but small,

  Have Venus shall

  The fair goddess

  Because it was

  Too low and bare

  For your good grace

  And worthiness!”

  Obviously deciding I should have the apple after all, it was broke into three, to represent wealth, wisdom and happiness, and handed to me.

  The streets were lively with music and song. Londoners put on dances, little performances, and recitals of passages from the Bible. There were tableaux of saints, and those of kings and queens from myth and history. Everything had been sanctioned by Henry. Every pageant, every song, every performance demonstrated chastity, virtue, fertility and grace.

  It seemed it was not only me who believed my reputation needed to be altered in England’s eyes.

  At the gate leading into the precinct of St Paul’s, there was a throne, set high upon a platform, glittering in the sunlight. It was empty, awaiting its new Queen. Around it was written, “Regina Anna. Prospere! Precede! Et Regna!” or, “Queen Anne! Prosper! Proceed! And reign!” Three women sat at its feet, representing the Sibyls who had foretold the coming of Christ. They sat about a placard which read, “Queen Anne, when thou shalt bear a new son of the King’s blood, there shall be a golden world unto thy people!”

  They held silver cards, bearing passages from the Bible such as “Confide in Domino” or “In the Lord I put my trust”, and the central figure held one of gold, which said “veni amica coronaberis,” come, my love, thou shalt be crowned.

  It occurred to me that this might be a personal message from my dear Henry.

  As I passed, women threw flowers and wafers. A glittering soft fall of colour rained upon my head. Messages of trust, faith and adoration were written in gold upon the white wafers. Children ran forward to catch them in their hands, slipping them quickly into pockets to keep them safe from thieves.

  Just before the western front of St Paul’s School, in the great courtyard, a huge crowd of two hundred children were gathered, wearing robes of purest white. As I stood watching, they came forward one by one to recite learned passages from the Bible and from Latin poets, praising Henry and me. As the last one sung his verse, I nodded to him.

  “Amen,” I said, smiling, and behind me, the crowd echoed, sending their Amen up to the skies to ring in the heavens.

  At Fleet Street, a special tower had been built with four turrets. For a moment, remembering my old dream of the tower and its bleeding walls, I shuddered to see this, but I tried to set dark portents from my mind. This image represented the Heavenly City, into which only the godly might pass. Four Cardinal Virtues stood, one in each turret, welcoming me into the realm of grace.

  We reached Westminster Abbey late that evening, and although I was tired, I knew my day was far from over. I went to the altar that night and prostrated myself before it. No mean feat, for a woman six months with child. On the ground, I prayed for guidance and love. I told God that I would make Him proud. I would become the best person I could be, protecting England from enemies of the faith, and bearing its heir, bringing perpetual peace. After many hours of prayer, I went back to the palace and secretly, took a barge to York Place, where I was reunited with Henry.

  “You were glorious,” he said as I entered the chamber, feeling faint with tiredness.

  “Were there some who laughed, Henry?”

  He shook his head. “They cried out for us, united as one,” he lied. I allowed him to believe his little fiction, for I was too tired to argue. I fell into bed beside Henry that night, and although he wished to engage in pleasure, I could not. I fell asleep so fast, I may not have even said goodnight before slumber took me and I fell into blessed darkness.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  York Place and Westminster Abbey

  1st June 1533

  It felt like only moments had passed before my eyes opened to the sight of my sister’s face as she shook me awake.

  “Time to get back to Westminster,” she said. She smiled but I could see her brow was creased with worry. “You are well enough for this?”

  “Today I become one with England,” I said, my voice hoarse with weariness. “I have been ready for a long time.”

  At seven in the morning, everyone began to assemble to greet my procession into the Abbey. It was nine when I entered, arrayed in a kirtle of crimson, topped by robes of purple velvet, furred with ermine, with a cowl of pearls over my hair, and the gold coronet on my head. In bare feet, I walked upon a carpet of blue ray to the altar, my train carried by Agnes, and a canopy of cloth of gold held over my head by the Barons of the Cinque Ports. The Bishops of Winchester and London followed me, and behind Agnes walked all my ladies and the nobles of court, dressed in scarlet. Thirteen abbots accompanied my steps, along with all the monks of Westminster, the entire Chapel Royal and all the higher nobility in robes of estate. Before me were the sceptre of gold and the rod of ivory topped with a dove. The Lord Great Chamberlain bore the crown of St Edward. This had previously only been used to crown the reigning monarch, but Henry had requested its use to set me apart from Katherine.

  I would be crowned as a regnant queen.

  A special stand had been erected, and there was another platform to one side, with a screen, behind which Henry was sitting. He was not supposed to share this day with me, but he had not wished to miss a single moment. Behind his gilded screen, my husband remained
officially anonymous.

  In the choir stood St Edward’s Chair, covered in cloth of gold and surrounded by tapestry. I rested upon the platform for a moment. The coronation robes were heavy, and I was tired. The procession through London had been arduous, and my child was heavy in my womb. But I could not tire. I could not rest. This was my destiny. No matter how weary I was, I was not about to miss one moment of it.

  The coronation was a solemn Mass, sung by the Abbot of Westminster, but it was my dearest friend Cranmer who prayed over me as I prostrated myself again before the altar. Once I had prayed, Cranmer helped me up and I returned to the Chair of St Edward where he anointed me with sacred oil. The heavy crown was placed upon my head. The formalities with which I was crowned were the same as those used for a king. Cranmer replaced the heavy crown with another, smaller one, and handed me my sceptre and ivory rod. A Te Deum was sung, and I received the Blessed Sacrament, then went to the shrine of St Edward to make an offering.

  I was Queen. Joined to England… tied to her with an unbreakable bond. Nothing could wash the balm of anointment from me.

  I was taken into a side room and given wine, which I needed. I thought I might faint.