by G Lawrence
“Will you say anything?”
I shrugged. “What need is there for me to speak? Lady Mary has done enough on her own to ensure her father’s wrath.”
“True enough.” George looked ruffled in spirit.
“What?”
“It is just…” He stared at the wall, and I knew he was not seeing the hunting scene on the tapestry. “She may seem like an adult, in her determination and spirit,” he said. “But we forget she is just a child. Seventeen years old, Anne… at that age would you or I have had the mettle to flout a king?”
“Speak words of admiration about my enemies, brother, and I swear I shall banish you from my presence.”
George smiled. “Cromwell speaks them too,” he pointed out. “It does not do to dismiss, underestimate or overestimate our foes, Anne. Do not make Mary into more or less than she is, by forgetting her weaknesses, or failing to see her strengths.”
“I never underestimate my foes.”
“I should tell you also, whilst you were away from court, I interrupted a conversation between Norfolk and Chapuys.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Just to hear what they were saying.”
“And did you hear anything of interest?”
George’s face became vexed. “Norfolk saw what I was up to and sent me to Henry’s chamber with a message,” he said. “When I returned they cut their conversation short.”
“Try to keep an eye on Norfolk. Ever since his daughter became engaged to Fitzroy, he seems to think he has no further need for the Boleyns. He sees another path to the power of the throne, and we are not on it with him.”
“That was my thought, too.”
That night, George and Norfolk made for France again to continue treaty talks on Henry’s behalf with Clement and François. I wondered if my brother and uncle kept to their separate cabins on the boat. It was clear Norfolk did not have much to say to George.
*
Two days later, Henry informed me that Mary was not only to have her household reduced, but she would lose the Countess of Salisbury, her governess. “I will have Mary moved into Elizabeth’s household,” he said, an unpleasant expression on his face. “When the time comes for our daughter to have her own house, Mary will join it. It is in keeping with tradition that an illegitimate daughter may serve legitimate ones. That will allow Mary to understand her status.”
I agreed, and when it became common knowledge, everyone thought I had demanded it. True enough, I laughed with my ladies, revelling in Mary’s misery and disgrace, but in truth I was uneasy… To put an infant, no matter how well-guarded, close to a volatile young woman who had every reason to hate, revile, and possibly work to remove her from life?
Mary, too, was obviously none too pleased. She sent for Chapuys and wrote to her mother. Katherine wrote to Henry often, and had recently been granted permission to write to her daughter again. Our spies intercepted some of their missives. Katherine emphasised how close she and Mary had become through their shared torment. Her letters to Henry were intended to save his soul from damnation, but those to her daughter all counselled reliance on God and faith. They were a gentle, yet insistent, call to arms. Katherine told her daughter to pray, read, and play her musical instruments for comfort, but also to resist all suitors, and guard her virginity. Katherine was preparing her daughter to fight, by retaining all the skills and requirements of a princess. And every letter was signed, ‘Katherine, The Queen.’
With one parent commanding her to submit and another instructing her to wage war, it is no wonder those years took a toll on Mary. She became easily hysterical, sometimes drooping into abject despair, and at other times, seemed as calm and collected as Katherine. Whatever their motivations, both parents placed heavy loads on the slim shoulders of that young girl. She could never please them both, so would remain forever miserable and tense.
Her residence of Beaulieu was granted to my brother, and Mary was moved to a smaller house in preparation for joining Elizabeth’s household in the winter. Both punishments were doled out by Henry. We had word that Chapuys had schooled the errant girl, showing her how to surrender to her position in Elizabeth’s household, whilst simultaneously making it clear she did not accept a change in her status.
“Let her resist all she wants,” I said to my father. “It will happen.”
Despite my bold words, a stab of fear hit my gut. Would my daughter be safe? A quiet, pressing hand over the mouth and nose was all it would take to murder Elizabeth. Would Mary take the life of an innocent to retain her position, or satisfy her spite and rage? I knew not. At that time, I thought Mary capable of anything. Perhaps she thought the same of me.
Mary was not the only one in a low state. However much I adored my daughter, I was left vulnerable by her birth. As a pregnant Queen, I had been the cradle of hope and new life. With a daughter born, I was no better for the realm than Katherine had been. And whilst Katherine lived, I remained a pretender. Only the birth of a son could cement me to the throne. Even as Mary’s servants had their badges torn from their clothing, and replaced with Henry’s scutcheon, I knew I was not safe. Until I bore a son, many would look on me with eyes of malice and disbelief and I was coming to understand that this did not only include my enemies, but those I had called allies, too.
My empire of glass… Glass I ruled. Glass I stood upon. A sparkling, glittering, kingdom born of imagination and fantasy is where I dwelled.
It does not take much to shatter glass. One good stone, the basest of materials, can break apart the most beautiful, the most delicate, of structures.
I had to wonder… whose hand held the stone?
Chapter Sixty-Five
Greenwich Palace
Autumn 1533
“You should eat more, Anne,” my mother scolded as she cleared away a tray of barely touched capon pie.
“I am not hungry.” It was not true, I was, but I was attempting to regain my lithe figure.
“You are slim enough already,” she said, knowing without question what I was up to. “The rigours of birth and feeding your babe strip strength from a woman.”
“Since I am commanded to feed my daughter no more,” I said resentfully. “I do not need as much food.”
My mother went off, muttering under her breath, but I knew I had to regain my figure. My waist was flabby and I had to squeeze into my gowns. Henry had only visited me twice since I was churched, and his reluctance to bed me, I believed, was because I did not measure up to the woman I had been before.
Or perhaps his new whore is a fine, skinny young thing, Katherine’s voice jeered. As you once were…
I rose abruptly and started chatting gaily to Weston to drown out the voice. No matter what my mother thought, or others advised, I had to become the woman Henry had fallen for. Without hope of him coming to my bed, I could not bear the son he wanted. A son would secure my position, but he would also make Elizabeth safe.
That night, I went to Elizabeth and took her in my arms. Long hours did I spend with her sleeping at my breast. “Whatever it takes, my love,” I whispered to her. “If I have to break my heart, swallow my pride, or become someone I recognise not, I will do so, for you. I will protect you.”
*
Travellers returned that autumn. Norfolk and George came home from France, and with them came Henry Fitzroy, finally released from the bonds of François’ ostentatious hospitality.
“You enjoyed your time in France, my lord?” I asked Fitzroy when he was presented.
“The French understand how to entertain a man, Your Majesty.” He smiled as he bowed.
Such a handsome boy, I thought. Although there is more of his mother in him than his father. I suspected Henry saw this too. In portraits, Fitzroy was painted to resemble Henry, but in real life Fitzroy’s face echoed that of Bessie Blount. Even his hair, which had a flash of Tudor red, was more gold than russet. But there was something in his prideful bearing that spoke of Henry, and he was certainly his father�
��s son when it came to sports, even though, like his father before him, Henry would not allow Fitzroy to compete in the joust. Many times, Henry had wailed to me about his father’s overbearing, rigid rules when he was growing up, yet he imposed the same regulations on his bastard son. Often was the time Henry would censure someone, then do that same thing himself, and think it right. Henry’s rules did not apply to him.
Since his return, Fitzroy had gone out of his way to court me, appearing at my side at entertainments and presenting books that he thought would delight me as gifts. Perhaps, since his mother had been Henry’s mistress, he recognised we had something in common. Katherine had been polite and gracious, but she had never liked him. Why should she? Fitzroy was the living reminder of her failure. He thought I might be more accepting, and he was right. I wanted to please Henry, so I accepted his bastard’s friendship. It was all courtly show and fakery, but it made Henry happy.
Fitzroy seemed delighted with Elizabeth, and asked to hold her whenever he came to the nursery. I have no doubt her sex pleased him. Henry would never accept a bastard in the succession, but Fitzroy, like any young man, harboured ambition. Once, it had been suggested that he wed his half-sister, Lady Mary, so the two incestuous siblings could rule England between them. I do not think he had been enamoured with the idea of marrying his own sister, but the notion of becoming King was enticing. But I flatter my daughter that not all of her half-brother’s delight in her was due to the reduced threat she posed to his ambitions. There was no one Elizabeth could not weave into her web of charm.
“She has her father’s ability to make everyone love her,” I said to Henry as we stood watching Mistress Pendred feed our daughter.
I did not usually like to be present when this happened. My hollow breasts twitched with indignation and horror. Mistress Pendred was a usurper and Henry had handed her my throne.
“And her mother’s fine eyes,” Henry said, oblivious to my agony. “They have darkened now, as I told you they would.”
I had never realised all babes were born with blue eyes, and the colour was decided on later… as though God wished to pause a moment before granting the colour of the eyes that would accompany a person through life. I mourned that Elizabeth had lost her blue orbs, but when I saw mirrors of my dark eyes stare back at me, I could not be sad. My daughter had been torn from my breast, but something of me lived inside her.
I saw Fitzroy chattering away to Mary Howard, his fiancée, and touched Henry’s arm. “It is good to see them so close,” I mentioned.
Henry nodded, but seemed distracted. Fitzroy and Mary’s wedding was planned for November, and I was deeply involved. I had no love for Norfolk, but I had plenty for his daughter. This union would tie another knot between the throne and my family. I wondered fleetingly if Henry thought Mary was not good enough for his bastard, but as I glanced in the direction his eyes were tending, I saw they were not on Fitzroy, or Mary, nor were they on our daughter.
My husband was staring at my women. At one in particular: Mary Shelton.
My heart twisted, and for a moment I thought I might scream. I swallowed hard, cast my eyes away and started to talk to Mistress Pendred in a most erratic fashion, trying to conceal my anguish. No wonder people thought me unhinged at times.
Even here… Even as our daughter takes her supper, with me standing at his side… He cannot stop himself.
My throat brought up bitter bile. I knew then that the dalliance with Joanna Dingley was not the only one, nor would it be the end of Henry’s infidelities. He glanced back at me with a distant, warm look in his eyes. I had to force myself to smile.
I could not let my husband know, in that moment, I hated him.
*
“We are questioning Elizabeth Barton, Majesty,” said Cranmer, taking a seat beside me at the fire.
“And how goes it?” I asked. “Would you care for wine, old friend? I have a pleasing concoction of spices to warm a cold belly in this inclement weather.”
Cranmer inclined his head and I nodded to Jane to pour him some from the brazier at the hearth. Cupping the steaming goblet in his hands, he sipped delicately. “A delicious mixture,” he said. “Do I detect ginger?”
“Galingale,” I said, smiling, “but the taste is very similar.”
“It is indeed welcome, after such a trip on the Thames.”
Outside, the skies were grey as death, heavy as iron. Rain had been falling since the early hours, and when I had awoken that morning it was the first time I had seen my breath on the air; winter’s first herald.
“How is the Princess?” asked Cranmer. “Still wrestling old men and young alike into outright adoration?”
I chuckled. “And getting more talented every day,” I said. “I have become a besotted mother, Eminence. There is nothing I would rather do than sit beside my daughter’s cradle and watch her. In truth, I find the notion of her living in another house to be my worst nightmare. Henry assures me our daughter will have the best of care, and being granted her own household is a mark of status and honour, but…”
“But the mother in you struggles.” Cranmer placed his cold hand over mine. It shook a little as I wound my fingers into his. “Majesty… it is only natural you should feel this way. There are many things we are called upon to do in life which seem to take us struggling against the tide of all we feel instinctively is right and normal. You are a devoted mother, and long to protect and care for your child. That she must be taken away is bound to cause pain, but think on this as another trial sent by God. You have duties to your daughter, yes, but you have other children too… the people of England. You must serve them as you serve your daughter.”
“I know,” I said, folding my hands in my lap. “Sometimes I feel the weight of my position more than others.”
“You were chosen because you have strong shoulders, Majesty,” Cranmer said, taking another sip. “Only fools never question their abilities.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Then I must be the wisest of all souls, old friend, for I question myself at every turn.” Cranmer chuckled and I gazed at him with great affection. “I hope you do not ever think of me as whimsical or frivolous when I jest,” I said.
“I do not,” he said. “Some people find it hard to accept compliments, and rebuff them with humour. To me, Majesty, it is another sign of your humility. So many people miss this virtue in you, but I see it, clear as the dawn. And besides…” he waggled a finger “… Our Lord Jesus Christ was known to make a jest from time to time. If the Lord of Heaven used wit, why should we not follow his example?”
“Indeed…” I said. “So, tell me of Barton. What had been happening?”
“Cromwell and I have been questioning her.”
“Has she been arrested?”
“Not formally, but I think my colleague will order it soon enough.” Cranmer sighed. “In truth, my lady, I think her an unfortunate; a bemused woman who has been manipulated by men. She keeps none of the property or money granted to her by her followers, but we know now that not all of it makes it to the Church, therefore she is used like a milk cow, to fill the coffers of her supporters. I think she is unbalanced, and sees what others place in her unsteady thoughts, but there is no denying she is dangerous. She is so clearly set against His Majesty and the sweet truth of reform that I cannot see a way to end this without…”
“Death?”
Cranmer nodded. “She is resolved to speak the truth, as she sees it,” he said. “And this will bring her up against His Majesty. Any rebel who spoke as she has would have already been executed. She has foretold the King’s death, an offence in itself, and much of what she says in Katherine’s defence, or in support of Lady Mary, could be read as an invitation to sedition and revolt.”
“Have you found out any more about her supporters at court?”
Cranmer pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said. “She will not lie, you see... It is part of her oath to God. Fisher’s name came up. Apparently they have had a lot of interviews, and s
he told us she spoke against the King in them, but Fisher failed to bring this information to his sovereign.”
“That is neglect,” I said. “Neglect to inform Henry could be seen as treason.”
“Cromwell said almost those exact words, Majesty.” Cranmer sat back and shook his head. “It is remarkable how alike the two of you think, at times.”
“It comes of working closely with one another,” I said. “But I admit Cromwell seems to have the ability to pluck thoughts from minds.”
“So do you, Majesty,” he said, grinning. “You always know what I am thinking.”
“You are an open, honest book, Eminence,” I said. “And why should you be otherwise? Such a heart as yours should be shared.”
Cranmer flushed. “Always, you are too kind.”
“Always, old friend, I but tell you the truth.”