The Scandal of Christendom

by G Lawrence

  When he had left me, I wept. In the aftermath of Elizabeth’s birth, although I could not have known more joy in my child, it seemed all I could do was cry. My mother told me it was natural, and would pass, but the thought of giving my child to another woman made me lower than I had ever fallen.

  My ladies comforted me as my child was taken to chapel, thinking I was upset to miss the ceremony. That may have been part of it, but it was also a release of all that had gone before, and the sudden realisation that I could never, ever, be too close to my child.

  That night, I sat by the window, watching bonfires illuminate the night skies in honour of my daughter. Flickering lights of amber flame bustled against the heavens, bouncing from London’s whitewashed houses and catching the edges of the silver stars in the velvet skies above. Like a thousand merry fireflies, those bonfires pranced, casting out the darkness of the night. People joined arms and danced about them. Their shadows loomed and fell on the walls of the city, on the houses, as though a horde of giants and dwarves celebrated a pact of peace. Below me were sounds of music and laughter from the great hall where the court celebrated. I was happy that Elizabeth was honoured, but I wished I could be there. Not the least, because I wanted to keep an eye on Henry.

  It was nothing, Anne, nothing, I told myself as I watched sparks fly up and glisten fleetingly in the air, seeking to outmatch the burning stars. It was a passing fancy. This one time will be the only time he strays.

  I knew I was lying. But sometimes a lie is easier than the truth. Sometimes we need to deceive ourselves, just to have the courage to face another day.

  I tried to excite my heart. I had achieved one of my dreams. I had a child. I was a mother with a beautiful daughter. That night should have been one of the happiest of my life. But it was not. No matter how many lies I told myself, or how many successes I counted, I was left with the bitterness of my wounded heart.

  Did I love Henry or did I hate him? Never had it occurred to me that both emotions could exist at once. Hate and love… People say they are mirrors of each other, but they are not. At times, they are the same creature. Like the centaurs of the Greeks, or their harpies, they are grace and godlessness, blessing and torment, courage and cowardice. Two separate beings and souls lashed together and held fast by chains of bone and sinew, of faith and disbelief. I was become a creature of legend. Hate and love bound in one form by sorrow, and by joy.

  I sat a long while at that window. I stared out into the autumn skies and watched the bonfires burn gay and bright in the distance. I thought about my daughter, and all I would teach her, and tried not to think about my husband, and what he might be doing. I tried to thrust Henry to one side, but I could not. Inside my heart had crept a tiny, sharp shadow of barbed, sorrow-bowed darkness.

  From that night onwards, it would grow inside my heart like a canker on an acorn, eventually splitting it asunder from the inside, leaving the dried and withered husk to rot inside my shattered breast.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Greenwich Palace

  Autumn 1533

  The celebrations went on at court as I waited to be churched. Having Elizabeth back with me was a huge relief, but I was disconcerted to hear from Jane that Henry was somewhat reserved during the entertainments.

  “If he does not celebrate you, little one,” I said to my daughter as she fed. “I will.”

  Elizabeth was a grand feeder. Every two hours she wanted more milk. My nipples ached and cracked, but I would have walked through fire for my child, so I could bear the pain. My daughter, however, was not the only one causing me discomfort. Chapuys approached Henry and told him that whilst it was fitting his new daughter had been granted a royal title, perhaps, seeing as I had borne a girl, Mary, as his eldest daughter, should be kept as heir to the throne.

  Henry refused to countenance this, but hearing it disturbed me. Would Elizabeth ever be recognised as England’s legitimate heir? Had she been born a boy, there would have been no question, but as a girl, she was as vulnerable as all women in a world dominated by men.

  When Henry arrived one night, and found me feeding our daughter again, he grew angry. “The wet nurse is here,” he said. “You have no further need to continue feeding our child. You are the Queen, madam, not a peasant.”

  I bristled. Mistress Pendred, an experienced mother and woman of high reputation, had indeed arrived two days ago, but I did not want to give Elizabeth up. “The midwives say it is good for a babe to have her mother’s milk,” I protested.

  “Midwives,” snorted Henry. “What would they know?”

  “A great deal more than men, who know not what we endure to bring children into the world!” I retorted.

  Henry stared at me. “You will give our daughter to Mistress Pendred now,” he commanded.

  There was nothing I could do. Continue to protest and Henry would believe me to be an unnatural woman of abnormal passions, earning me his disfavour, and possibly endangering Elizabeth as well. But as I surrendered my baby to Mistress Pendred, my soul screamed out that this was wrong, abhorrent, and unnatural.

  I could not watch her feed my daughter. I could not. It was torment. Mary and my mother brought me cabbage and foxglove leaves to dry my milk, but my breasts became engorged, hard and tender. In between my time of relinquishing Elizabeth and churching, I wept a great deal.

  I was churched a little before the month was up. Processing from my chambers to the boundary of Greenwich’s chapel, I was escorted by women carrying candles. The Benedictio mulieris post partum, the blessing of women after giving birth, was an ancient ceremony, used to give sanctification and thanksgiving. Cranmer greeted me at the church boundary and spoke a prayer over me.

  “Almighty, everlasting God, through the delivery of the blessed Virgin, Thou hast turned into joy the pains of the faithful in childbirth. Look mercifully upon this, Thy handmaid, coming in gladness to Thy temple to offer up her thanks, and grant that after this life, by the merits and intercession of the same blessed Mary, she may merit to arrive, together with her offspring, at the joys of everlasting happiness. Through Jesus Christ our Lord,”

  “Amen,” I whispered.

  Elizabeth’s soul and mine were joined. Even if separated by death, one day we would find each other again in paradise.

  A Mass, held afterwards in the church, welcomed me back to the world. The church was illuminated with candles, hundreds of them, in an imitation of the Virgin’s rite of Candlemas. Prayers, blessings and thanks were given and I emerged to distribute alms to the poor. That night there was a feast and a dance, and whilst I was happy to be near Henry, all I could think of was my daughter. When the feast ended, I hurried to Elizabeth’s room, only to find her sleeping peacefully, unaware of her mother’s terror at being separated from her for but a few hours.

  The next day, unable to bear the separation, I brought Elizabeth into court and placed her on a huge velvet cushion beside my throne, much to the surprise of many. When Henry arrived, he gaped at me as though he had found a white bear of the north upon his throne.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded in a strained whisper. “Court is no place for our child.”

  “I can watch over our daughter as I go about my duties,” I murmured. “She is happiest when she is with me.”

  “Do you think you are a laundress, or washerwoman?” Henry demanded. “You are the Queen!” He flicked a hand at Mistress Pendred who was standing nearby. “Take my daughter back to the nursery,” he said. “And no more will be said about this.”

  It was all I could do not to run after my servant as she took Elizabeth howling from the chamber.

  In the days that followed, I tried to act as Henry wanted me to. I smiled and jested, as I had always done before, but there was no heart in me without my daughter. Every morning, noon and night, I visited Elizabeth, but it was as painful as it was sweet to be with her. When I heard my baby cry, my whole body wanted to respond. I had to stop my feet lurching towards her as dignitaries clustered
about her cradle.

  When my daughter cried, my breasts wept. Despite the cabbage leaves toiling, milk dribbled from my swollen, hard breasts into the linen of my kirtle. I had to stifle my sorrow. I had to sit upon my throne, smile and chatter away to ambassadors and courtiers, and pretend my heart was not breaking and my breasts were not mourning. My body was mine no more. I belonged to Elizabeth.

  I acted as though I was pleased Elizabeth had a good woman to feed her. But everything inside me told me this was wrong. The struggle to accept Henry’s orders was almost impossible. Every day, I had to watch Elizabeth being fed by another woman, and every moment I looked on, all I wanted was to seize my daughter from the arms of her wet nurse, and run with her… run far, far away, where no man would dare tell me what was right and what was wrong, for my own body and soul.

  By The Holy Virgin, Katherine, I asked the voice inside my mind as I turned my eyes from Elizabeth feeding. Did you go through this too? Her breasts too must have swelled and then died. She, too, must have wept. She, too, must have longed to snatch her child away.

  Henry will never understand, said the voice. No man can know what we go through, when our babies are stolen from us. Katherine’s voice did not pour scorn on me. For once, the haunting presence at my side did not seem hostile. I could almost feel a sympathetic hand being placed upon my shoulder.

  I looked at Henry as we sat side by side on our thrones in the nursery, greeting ambassadors who came to offer false praise of my perfect daughter. He smiled in an absent fashion and went back to talking with my father. He did not understand. He never would. He never could. To him, this was but ritual and tradition. To me, it was the essence of my soul.

  My husband chattered away, blithely unaware of the horror and pain coursing through me. Horror and pain he had caused.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Greenwich Palace

  Autumn 1533

  To my delight, Lady Mary was told to cease styling herself princess three days after Elizabeth’s birth. Chapuys’ request that she remain heir to the throne had brought Henry into a place of understanding. No more could men doubt who was his heir. My joy that Elizabeth was to be protected, upheld and worshipped knew no bounds. Mary was ordered to stop using her royal badges, and the royal livery she employed was to be altered. Mary wrote back, apparently in amazement.

  “The King was enraged,” said Jane, who had had the news from Norris. “Lady Mary wrote that she thought the King’s command must be a mistake, or that her father had not been informed of this command, since she knew herself to be his natural daughter and if she agreed anything to the contrary then she would offend God.”

  “Mary pulls God from her sleeve as often as her mother,” I said. “This is a tactic. Mary knows that her father does not always keep track of communication sent out in his name. She is playing on that to buy her time.”

  “His Majesty was insulted,” Jane said. “He said if she wanted her change in status to be proclaimed rather than done in private, he would satisfy her, and marched off, calling for the earls of Sussex, Oxford and Essex to be brought to him to do the deed.”

  “Good,” I said. “His Majesty has a legitimate daughter now. He has no need to pander to the Lady Mary!”

  I rejoiced to hear Henry had sent a strongly-worded letter, saying Mary had forgotten her filial duty to her father, that she was attempting to usurp the title of princess from his legitimate child, and she was not, in fact, his legitimate daughter, delivered in holy wedlock, but a bastard born of incest.

  It was not a letter that any child would ever want to receive from their father.

  But even as I rejoiced, I was uneasy. Had I borne a boy, I have no doubt that Mary would have ceded, not happily, but she would have surrendered. With a prince born, Mary would understand I was irreplaceable, and my son would be accepted without question. The fact that I had borne a girl meant Mary had no reason to submit. She was in no worse or better position, but I was. I had stumbled. No matter how much Henry loved Elizabeth, England and its King needed and wanted a son. This hateful notion infiltrated my mind like a wriggling maggot, making me insecure and fractious. When Norfolk arrived on a brief visit back from France, I shouted at him before the whole court when he failed to address me as ‘Majesty’ and called me ‘niece’ instead.

  “You are too familiar, Norfolk,” I upbraided him. “You should remember, sir, who is your Queen!”

  Norfolk left muttering into his beard about the high-handedness of unruly women. It was a foolish move on my part. I knew even if Norfolk recognised me as Queen, first and foremost, I would always be his niece and therefore, in his eyes, of lower status than him. Norfolk thought this of all women. It did not matter who they were. Their sex degraded them in his eyes, and he was not alone in this manner of thinking. But even though my uncle enraged me, it was not really him I was angry at. It was Lady Mary, and her continued defiance, so like her mother’s that I felt I were standing in a cave, hearing Katherine’s voice echoing over and over and over. As if she is not with me every day, I thought, thinking of the eerie voice within my mind.

  The fact that Lady Mary was a traditional Catholic also brought up issues. She would be seen by those who believed that all reform was heresy to be the protector of the Catholic faith and Rome. Mary was as formidable an enemy as her mother. Perhaps more so, for Mary had been watching. She had been learning.

  But however prepared Mary was to fight, she continuously underestimated her father. Like Katherine, she had grown to think of Henry as easily bowed by the changing winds of court. Perhaps she believed his love would protect her. She was wrong.

  The earls were sent with a clear mission; to get Lady Mary to understand the folly and peril of her conduct, and to point out that she had “worthily deserved the King’s high displeasure and punishment by law, but that when she conformed to his will, he may incline of his fatherly pity to promote her welfare.”

  Note that Henry did not say “if” she conformed. If was not an option. It was every man’s right to be master in his own home, so said the law and the Church, and if the King of England could not master his women, what did that say? If he allowed Mary to flaunt his will, Henry would have been reduced in his own estimations, and in that of every man who looked on him. The gauntlet was thrown down. Mary was to submit, or she would be punished.

  François had accused me of foolishness for not caring what others thought of me. Perhaps Henry cared too much.

  But even with pride and fear, rage and dignity in mind, Henry hesitated, and his dawdling brought me terror. Every moment he delayed stripping Mary of her household, or allowed the charade of her ‘misunderstanding’ of the letters to continue, Mary was granted hope. Looking back, this uncertainty Henry created did no good to Mary. To understand a situation is to have some control over it, but to waver between hope and despair allows the heart and soul to soar and droop, never permitting rest. Lady Mary was bound in purgatory from the moment of Elizabeth’s birth. Looking back, I pity her. At the time, however, there was nothing that satisfied me more than the notion of this headstrong, insolent child being brought low. I did not want Lady Mary in any state conducive to threatening my child.

  Henry eventually issued instructions that Mary’s household would be reduced and Mary was commanded to accept her father’s orders. If she had complied, her life would have stayed much the same, but compliancy would mean she was accepting her reduced status, and that was something Mary would not do. She wrote a long letter on the night the earls left, telling Henry she would obey his commands for the entirety of her lifetime, but she could not renounce the privileges and riches which God, nature and her parents had granted her. She added that she was rightly called ‘Princess’, being the daughter of a king and a queen. Her father might do his pleasure, might call her any title he wished, Mary wrote, but it could never be said of her that she had prejudiced her legitimacy, or the rights of her mother, the Queen, whose example she was determined to follow. She would place herse
lf in the hands of God, and bear all her misfortunes with patience.

  “She thinks she is a martyr,” I said to George. “Perhaps we should satisfy her ambition.”

  “Henry’s face went quite black with rage,” said George, ignoring my allusion to Mary deserving death. “He crumpled the parchment, threw it to the floor, and left without a word.”

  “She has all but said she is taking the same path as Katherine.” I ran my hands over my gown of blue silk and cloth of gold. “She could become a focal point for rebellion. Henry understands now that she is a threat to his kingdom.”

  “Does he?” George’s face was ponderous. “I wonder sometimes. We all think of the King as a sovereign first and a man second. But it is not always so. To have his own daughter turn on him makes a mockery of his authority as a father. I think that is what he is most annoyed about.”

  “All the same, he will come to understand the peril she presents,” I said. “She echoes Katherine in word and deed, claiming loyalty whilst challenging his power. Henry cannot continue to love one who contests him.”