by G Lawrence
“Suspect?” I snorted as I finished reading. “I know that was what the odious girl said!” I was furious. How could my aunt be so foolish as to allow Featherstone, a known sympathizer, to meet with the girl? I was right to think ill of this as Featherstone went to Chapuys.
“It seems it may turn out better than you think, sister,” said Jane after she had done some digging at court. “Chapuys was horrified and wrote to Katherine, telling her to cease to urge her daughter into action that would imperil her life. He has advised Lady Mary to write protests to the King; ones that inform him of her feelings and thoughts, but do not accept her new status.”
“How did you discover that?” I breathed.
Jane smiled. “There are maids all over the palaces with ears, Majesty,” she said. “There is nothing that goes on that at least one person does not hear. Nothing is secret at court.” She smiled. “But this is good news, is it not? If the Lady starts to obey, rather than rebel?”
“I wonder if it would not be better for her to continue fighting her tired, forlorn battle,” I said, not really considering to whom I was speaking. “If Mary goes on struggling against the King, he will despise her as much as her mother.”
I was lost in thought for a moment, and suddenly realised Jane was staring at me like a snake contemplating an injured mouse. “Forgive me,” I said in haste. “I spoke without thinking. Of course it is better that Lady Mary submits. It will make her father happy.”
“Of course,” said Jane.
“You will say nothing of this, sister?” I did not like the way Jane’s eyes were glittering.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “Family must keep secrets.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Hampton Court
Spring 1534
I was right to fear that if Mary backed down she might win her father’s love. The protests Chapuys asked her to send to Henry reached him within days. Mary was clever, and she had had help, even I could see that. The letters set out her objections, but were filled with sweet promises of obedience and love. Henry lapped them up. Seeing his daughter less strident and fierce, Henry softened. He was happier when he was able to treat her well. The part of the harsh father was not one he ever wanted to play, no matter how snug the costume fitted.
“She has seen how her actions have hurt me,” he said. “And wishes to put them to mending.”
I scowled. “You can never see, can you, past her declarations of love?” Henry’s face was dark with rage as he turned to face me. “You do not see, Henry, love is not just something to be said, it is something to be done. Your bastard may protest she loves you all she wants, but if she goes against you, and against the true line of succession, she shows she does not love you. Her words are lies, husband. She does not love you… she loves only her mother.”
“My daughter loves me!” Henry screamed, his face brilliant scarlet. “Who are you to tell me about the hearts of others? Who are you to know anything about my family?”
“I am your wife! I have brought you your family!” I shouted, not caring who heard. “I am your Queen!”
“Then act like a queen or wife, or both,” he said sourly. “Your present conduct disgraces both hallowed offices. You will cease to instruct me, madam, and will take time to consider how much you have that has come from me, and how much I have done for you. Were the choice mine again, I would not do so much!”
He went to leave and I let out a chuckle. It was not a laugh of joy or mirth, but one of pain. “Yes, go,” I called. “Run to your whore. Have her tell you all that you want to hear. But if you look for truth, or for true love, you go to the wrong woman, Henry of England. I am the only one who loves you. These other women look only for power, and the daughter you think adores you despises you. Run to them. Hide your head and ignore the perils to your nation. But do not think that the mother of your son and heir will ever forget her duty. I will speak, Henry. I will be heard.”
I stood, powerful in anger as little shards of my broken heart seemed to flash from the floor and flow into my chest. My soul swelled and I stood strong. It did not matter what Henry thought of me, I realised, only what I thought. For a moment, I was mighty. For a moment, my old courage soared into my soul.
His back stiffened as he reached the door, and his shoulders hunched. When he turned back, I almost took a step backwards. Never had I seen such an expression of loathing.
“Were you not carrying my son,” he said in a voice of dreadful, terrible calm, “I would teach you to respect your husband and master.”
“Then I thank God my son protects me,” I said, trying to keep fear from my voice. “For then at least one King of England is willing to defend his loyal subjects.” I curled my lip. Never had I hated Henry as I did in that moment. “Go to your whores,” I said again. “And then to your confessor go, Henry, and soothe your conscience with his prayers.”
“You have said enough,” he said. “You are upsetting our babe with your choler.”
“I know the mind and soul of our son,” I said. “What distresses him is the betrayal of his father. What saddens him is that his father is a deceiver who lied about his love for me.”
“At this moment I have no love for you,” Henry said.
It was as though he had punched me. Pain flashed through my belly. Feeling weak, I sat down heavily. The world went dark, then light. The night’s stars had conquered my mind. I blinked heavily and put my head in my hands. When I looked up, Henry was beside me, his face fractured by concern. “Anne…” he said softly. “You are well? The baby…?”
I turned my face away, blinking back tears. I could not speak. How had I stood almighty and awesome in anger only a moment before? What was this power Henry had to crush me like a rotten apple in his hand?
“I spoke in anger. I did not mean what I said,” Henry said, trying to take my hands. They lay lifeless and limp in his grip. “I love you, Anne. I have never loved another. Sometimes, when I am enraged, I say things I do not mean. Do not take what I said to heart. I love you.”
“I love you.” The words came out gritty and harsh. They broke from my throat, tearing at my ductile flesh. I meant what I said, but those words cost me dear. To admit that you love is to risk all. My passionate, hard stance was made a mockery of by admitting I loved him. I felt strong and powerful in anger no more. I was weakened by my love, and by my reliance on him.
“Then all is well between us.” His eyes travelled to my belly. “You are sure the child is hale?”
There was no pain and I nodded. “Our son is fine.”
“As long as that is true you have nothing to fear.” Henry kissed me and left. I watched him go.
As long as that is true you have nothing to fear? I thought. Surely, husband, you mean we have nothing to fear?
*
Katherine was moved to Kimbolton, a fortified manor house in Huntingdonshire. It was only a few miles from Buckden, and was a gloomy, old-fashioned dwelling. But Kimbolton was farther from the fens. Katherine had been suffering from a cough, exasperated by the mists and damp of the marshes. Her doctor bled her regularly, trying to rebalance her humours, but to no avail. Where the rampant mists of the fens might have carried troublesome Katherine into an early grave, and out of our way, it seemed Henry was too afraid of rumour to allow that to happen. I worried, too, that his newfound love for his daughter was part of the reason he was now looking with an eye of sympathy on his former wife.
At that time, I would have welcomed Katherine’s death. I even prayed for it, but God, knowing what evil I asked, did not grant me this favour. I will not deny this sin. I must lay claim to all I did, thought and wished that was beneath me.
“The King must be made to see that Katherine remains his enemy,” I said to Cromwell.
“She does enough to prove that herself,” Cromwell told me. “She defies the King’s wish to believe that she is well treated. She has freedom of the house, but will not leave her room. She insists it is a cell, and her serva
nts are jailers. Even though she has the key to her door, she acts as though she is a captive. She has even sent requests to Chapuys and Gertrude Courtenay, asking for almonds and old, good wine, as she says the wine provided by His Majesty is not adequate.” He shook his head. “Having been brought up by common stock and after spending many years on desperate campaigns, I can tell you, madam, the suffering the Dowager speaks of is hardly hardship.”
“And His Majesty knows this?”
“Knows, and is enraged by it.” Cromwell sighed. “The King acts with mercy, and she throws it in his face. He gives her a good income, and she acts as though she has not two shillings to rub together. She has a doctor to attend to her ailments, yet all she can say is that she is being poisoned.”
“She does not want to make it easy for him,” I said. Sometimes, I could see Katherine’s mind so clear it was as though we were connected. Perhaps we were. We were both fighting for the same position and we did so for love, for honour, and for our children.
Katherine walked beside me… It was as though part of her spirit, her story, had become attached to me. It was perhaps natural to think this. Everyone compared me to her, and many found me wanting. But at that time, I seemed to sense chains locking tight about the two of us, binding us together.
“If the King knows, why does he allow her to continue?” I asked.
Cromwell shrugged. “What more can he do?” I had to concede he had a point. Cromwell went on. “The next step, Majesty, is to act against those conspiring with the Dowager. We can cut off her supporters and she will be neutralised as a threat. And were she to be proved as complicit in treason, the King would have means and method to lawfully punish her. Even if he chose not to, for worry about what the Emperor would do, it might sway the people to see her no longer as an angel.”
“You speak of the Observant Friars,” I said. “I have been meaning to talk with you on that matter.”
“The investigation into their activities is going well,” said Cromwell, almost, but not quite, cutting me off. I sensed he knew I was about to speak on behalf of the Observants, and did not want me to.
“Katherine’s confessor, John Forest, is a ringleader in their rebellion,” he went on. “They have thwarted my commissioners. My men were to accept the oath from the religious order as a whole, but the friars protested since this was a matter that concerned men’s souls, they would have every man answer for himself.” Cromwell frowned. “This has forced my men to interview each of them separately,” he said. “Causing a delay, which I’d wager was their purpose from the beginning.”
“His Majesty has often praised them,” I said. “He once said they were the only Order in England sincerely dedicated to the cause of Christ and I have noted their devotion, too.”
Cromwell was staring at me. “If you leave them at liberty to say and do as they will, Majesty, they will continue to cause dissent.”
“I wish there was a way to bring them to our way of thinking.”
“They have had many chances, Majesty, and not taken them.” Cromwell plucked a round of withered, dried apple from a silver platter on the table. Ripping its creamy surface with his strong teeth, he chewed as I watched him. I saw nothing of the pain and doubt I felt in persecuting these holy men in his eyes. There was only that steady, solid gaze. That dark night of secrets, whose tunnels led into the mind of this man of shadow.
I was coming to think I did not know Cromwell as well as I had thought.
“I would have mercy shown to them,” I insisted.
“You are compassionate, by spirit,” said Cromwell. “But, Majesty, consider… your enemies are not. The friars will never work for you, or the King. They work for Rome, for Clement, and for Katherine. She is one of their own; an honorary member of their Third Order. They will never turn on her.”
“You mean to bring them down.”
Cromwell nodded, his face impassive and clear. “I mean to bring them down.”
*
“I write to beg a favour, Master Secretary,” I wrote to Cromwell in my elegant hand. It was only three days after our last interview, but I had need of his aid. “On the matter of Master Richard Herman, a merchant, and a good servant of the faith. Herman was expelled from membership to the English House in Antwerp some months ago, expelled from his freedom and fellowship of and in the English House, for his help in setting forth of the New Testament in English. I would ask that you see that this good and honest merchant be restored to his pristine freedom, liberty and fellowship, allowing him to enter the English House again, as a member.”
The English House in Antwerp was a manor bestowed on English merchants sixty years ago by Antwerp’s magistrates to encourage trade with England, and its fellowship was much desired. Standing in an alleyway a few hundred yards from the city’s Grote Market, the central market square, it extended the rights of the citizens of Antwerp to English merchants who resided there; offering freedom from arbitrary arrest and detention without trial. A resident or member of the English House could only be arrested within the confines of the building if the charge was for a serious crime, for which evidence of guilt already existed. This made it appealing to men like Herman, and Tyndale, as it offered protection from unsupported accusations of heresy.
Herman had been arrested some years ago in connection with Tyndale, and had lost his membership to the house. He had written to me asking for my intervention. I was willing. If I could not protect the Observants, I could safeguard heroes of true faith.
It was Doctor Butts who quietly brought the letter to me. Despite the newfound freedom of reformers in England, Henry saw Tyndale and those associated with him as heretics. Of course, those who stood for Rome were not well-liked either and Henry had men on the watch for dissenters on either side of the Christian void. Only those who agreed with Henry were safe. I did not want to anger my changeable husband, but I believed Herman’s connection to Tyndale was slight enough to allow me to sneak through this request without Henry realising. This was also why I went to Cromwell. We had done so much together to promote and protect Tyndale that I believed he would not inform Henry.
But it was not only for Herman that I intervened. I nurtured hope that one day I might convince Henry that Tyndale was a man we could use. Whilst Tyndale remained unmoved on the subject of Henry’s first marriage, I hoped he viewed me as an influence for good. One day, perhaps, Tyndale and Henry might be capable of setting aside their mutual anger, and agree to communicate, even if only by letter.
Cromwell agreed to aid Herman, and a few weeks later a parcel arrived for me. There was no note, but I knew who it was from. Doctor Butts brought the package to my chambers, and as I unwrapped the velvet coverings, I gasped with pleasure. It was a copy of Tyndale’s revised New Testament, printed on vellum, obviously at great expense. It was inscribed Anna Regina Angliae, Anne, Queen of England.
I knew this was not just a gift from Herman. It was from Tyndale. Although there was no note to say so, from the inscription I understood that he saw me as an ally. This was a gift for my intervention on behalf of his friend and supporter, yes, but also a quiet, private recognition of my status and position, from one of the foremost minds of our generation.
I had the book left on a desk in my chamber, replacing the other copy of the English Bible I had kept there, and told my servants to read it whenever they wished. My people had the privilege of being some of the first souls in England to read the Bible in their mother tongue; some of the first people to understand the Word of God for themselves. And with the beauty of Tyndale’s translation, which was like reading poetry, I knew they would take much that was valuable from this tome.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Hampton Court
Summer 1534
Dresses billowed as ladies tripped and skipped, laughing as they danced. Shoes tapped on the rush-strewn floor of the great hall, and the low murmur of men’s voices, spilling secrets, ran beneath the hum of music floating from the gallery above. Wine flowed and al
e was poured into silver and pewter goblets by wandering servants in Tudor livery. The air was sultry, redolent with the scent of skin and sweat, spices and herbs, which lingered after the end of the feast. It had been a good night, a celebration of our prosperity. But under all the joy and entertainment, dark shadows haunted our steps.