by G Lawrence
Those shades… Fisher, More and the Observant Friars. Even in absence they seemed able to reach hand and thought into the minds of men, making them watchful and uneasy. Dark shadows of the living and the dead loomed over us. Katherine followed me… a lurking wraith ever at my elbow. Mary, too, was a constant presence. Barton, her voice in death as strong as it was in life, seemed to trip along the hallways of court like a ghost.
The living and the dead… at times it seemed so much had happened so fast, that they had become intertwined, like ivy and the tree on which it feeds.
Earlier that week, two cartloads of Observants had been trundled through London to the Tower; Katherine’s old confessor, John Forest, amongst them. Friar Forest had visited Katherine whilst she languished in her grim houses. Katherine had already heard of his arrest, no doubt through a speedily sent letter from Chapuys, and protested that these men of God were taken like common criminals into the dungeons of the Tower. It was said Katherine spent all her time in prayer and, in truth, what else did she have to do? The friars were added into her prayers, along with others for Henry’s soul and my destruction. No doubt in the same breath she prayed for them to live, she prayed for me to die.
But just as Christ had died for love of the world, so would she and the friars die, if required, for love of the Church, and in Katherine’s case, love for Henry. Martyrdom is, after all, an expression of love. It was why Jesus’ sacrifice was called the Passion of Christ.
It was something I had never really considered… that Katherine’s battle was not only a matter of pride, but of love. Had she loved her husband as I did? Had she once thought him the most worthy man in the world, as I had? And had both of us come to see the true nature of this changeable King, and somehow, amidst finding him often ridiculous, cruel and vain, had she, like me, found a thread of love to cling to?
We were prisoners; she in her damp house, and me at court. But we were not only prisoners of circumstance. We were prisoners of love.
I had often compared Henry to the sun. Being beside him was to bask in light and warmth. Being apart from him, or in the fell shadow of his anger, was to dwell in the chill of the winter sunset. The sun’s glare can be hard on the eyes, but to remove it leaves one in darkness. That was how I felt. Henry adored me because I was great with child, but whether he loved me as once he had, I knew not. At times we were strong. At times, I could laugh at the visions of horror, of losing his love, thinking them ridiculous. But when he hurt me, shamed me, and made a mockery of our love, I believed I had married a stranger.
And at that moment, as I sat upon my throne, as though I had all the power in the world, I wondered at what others thought they could see. It is so easy to be apart from a relationship and believe you know everything about it. So simple to cast a glance over a couple and believe them in love. To all outward appearance, Henry was mine. He still wanted me, he needed me. I was his wife, carrying his child… But what if I carried another girl? What then?
Henry’s hand closed over mine, breaking me from thoughts of darkness and deceit. “I want you to come with me,” he said. “To another chamber, just for a while.”
“The Church would frown on any activities you might have planned, my lord,” I said in a naughty tone. I had kept my promise to my brother, or at least I had tried. Henry had to see me as enticing at all times. Flirtation was my fortification.
Henry laughed. “Although I will be grateful to have you returned to me as a true wife,” he said. “That is not what I had in mind.”
Have you had it in mind with another, then? I thought. I had seen those blue eyes linger on Mary Shelton during the night. As Tom, Norris and Weston flocked about her, Henry’s eyes glimmered with envy. Mary was a beautiful woman. One of the prettiest, cleverest women at court, and eager bees buzzed to her flower. Had Henry been thinking thoughts of lust about her?
Are your present mistresses not enough, husband? I wondered. Has your member ceased to fail you… or do you only have lust for women who are not your wives?
I sometimes wondered if this was the case, or whether the absent pressure of creating a child made the act easier for Henry. Had the strain of producing a prince overcome my husband’s strength and courage when he came to my bed? It had been months since we had lain together. Henry was unwilling to risk harm to our babe. And as soon as he left my bed, he had raced to his whores.
I had to wonder, also, if Henry’s act of taking a mistress, or more than one, was another way of showing the world he was a great, virile man. If he was not capable of lying with them, they would never say, but the world would look on him and accept his boasts as truths. Perhaps Henry only took mistresses to conceal his terror of inadequacy from the world.
Whether he was capable of delighting them did not matter to me, however. In many ways, I hoped he was incompetent and defective when he ran to them. But the mere fact of their existence in his life brought me more pain than I could confess.
Norris and Weston protested that they knew nothing of them, but I knew it was not so. It was traditional for Henry’s men to aid him in procuring jades, and to arrange places for him to meet them; houses where they could enjoy each other away from the court’s prying eyes. Should I have blamed my friends? Part of me wanted to. Another voice told me they could hardly refuse. Service was a shackle. They, like me, were trapped by duty. I wanted to blame them, but when I considered the matter honestly, there was only one person to hold accountable.
Henry.
What was it about this man that made people excuse his actions and blame them on others? Katherine had blamed me for the annulment, as had Mary. Henry’s people thought me responsible for the break from Rome, for Barton’s death, Fisher and More’s arrests and Katherine’s miserable situation. But when I tried to lay Henry’s sins on another, I found I could not. I was reluctant to see his guilt because I wanted there to be someone else to blame. That way, I could separate the man I loved from the one who hurt me. But my heart was honest. I could not blame others.
Love is slavery, at times. Henry held me in chains.
Silent and softly had those links slipped about my wrists and ankles. Disguised as my dreams and pretending to be the means of my liberty they had stolen across my flesh. Quietly they had come, lashing me to the ground, fettering me to Henry. Like Andromeda I was chained. But the prince promised to her would not come for me. Henry was the rock I was bound to, and the beast to which I was sacrificed. He could set me free or hold me fast. He could release me, or devour me. My bondage was absolute. Marriage held me prisoner, and the throne, which should have brought such power, such influence, was but another chain.
“Your brother and Cromwell will meet us,” said Henry. “We will slip away, and see if the court notices. It will be a fine game.”
I had to stop myself pulling a face of disbelief. In so many ways, Henry was naïve. No one was ever about to miss the King and Queen slipping into a side chamber with the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports and the King’s Chief Secretary. What a fantasist my husband was! But he was like a boy at times. It is hard to tell a child to cease to play.
I nodded. “We will be quiet as mice,” I whispered. “My ladies can flock about our thrones, and we will depart.”
Henry chuckled. “A fine idea, my love.”
My ladies did as bidden, covering the dais with a barricade of swishing silk, and as they stood, apparently chattering away to us, we slipped into a small antechamber.
George was already there and Cromwell followed a moment later. Wherever the King went, so followed Cromwell. He had become Henry’s shadow.
Perhaps we were all being followed by someone.
“I wish to talk about the mission to France,” Henry announced. “George is to convince François to delay the meeting, but I want it done in such a way that this will not cause insult.”
“Why should François be insulted, my lord?” I asked. “Is it not clear that in my present condition I cannot travel?” My hand slipped onto the bump on my
front. The midwives and doctors had recently told me they believed I was six months pregnant rather than almost eight. It was common, they said, for a mother to mistake her days, especially if keen to bear a babe. Their advice had led to Henry postponing preparations for my lying-in. I would not take to my chamber for another two months, and although Henry had lists of cloth and items of furniture still to be made for the arrival of his son, much of the urgency had gone from the proceedings.
“The French King, quite obviously, hopes to avoid your attendance, Majesty,” said Cromwell. “It is only to be expected. I understand his wife has put pressure on him.” Cromwell’s face was sympathetic. “But we will not allow this to happen. François must receive you.”
“But we must also ensure François knows how keen we are to meet him again,” pressed Henry. “And therefore, we have come up with a plan.”
I smiled at Henry’s excited face. When passionate, he looked like the handsome prince I had lost my heart to. “And what is this plan, my lords?”
“When you go to France,” Henry said to George, “you will go first to the Queen of Navarre, as discussed. You will tell her I am so keen for the meeting that I do not think I can wait, but the Queen, in her honourable and delicate condition, has urged the meeting to be delayed.” Henry smirked at me and my brother. “In that way, both positions are set forth.”
“You could say to Marguerite that I cannot do without the King, at such a time,” I suggested. “And I obtained leave for you to go in the King’s stead.”
“Good, good,” said Henry, turning his smile on Cromwell. “Did I not say my good wife would have ideas to add to yours, Thomas?”
So this had been Cromwell’s notion. I was not surprised. Every idea that came from Henry’s lips these days originated in Cromwell’s mind. “Tell the King and Queen I hope to be able to come to the meeting, and if it is scheduled for April next year, that would be beneficial,” I said.
“Why April, my love?” asked Henry. “That seems too far away.”
“My lord… Did you want to only take a glimpse at your son and then dash away to France?” I asked, laughing. “When our son is born the people of England will want to celebrate with their King. If the doctors are right, and I have another three months before the birth, that takes us into autumn. We will have much to plan for the birth and the celebrations, so we may not be able to concentrate on this as well. Then winter will be here, and the crossing will be harder. By spring, we will be free to visit France, with a prince in the nursery beside our beloved daughter.” I gazed at him with warm eyes. “Surely, we should see our family safe and settled in England, first, then take the time to travel to France?”
Henry walked to me so fast that Cromwell had to skip out of the way. It was like watching a hawk plunge down on a shrew; as though there was no one else in the world, but me.
He took my hands. “As wise as you are beautiful,” he said. “My glorious Queen.”
Henry took me in his arms. His hands stole under my veil to my hair to pass a length of my raven tresses through his fingers. As my husband caressed me, Cromwell and George looked away, pretending they had transformed into tapestry on the walls. Then Cromwell coughed and Henry stepped back, his cheeks rosy.
“This is what I shall do, then,” said George. “Persuade the King of France and Queen of Navarre to delay the meeting, but press how eager you are for it.”
“And when a date is agreed,” said Henry, holding my hand, “François and his Queen will meet my wife. They will recognise her as an equal, and as the mother of my children.”
Looking at Henry in that moment, I could hardly imagine that not an hour before I had been lost in darkness. Such was his power. Such was my private, silent and desperate need to believe in his love.
Chapter Eighty
Hampton Court
Summer 1534
“Perhaps just under seven and a half thousand people have now sworn the oath, Majesty,” said Cranmer. “And work continues. Cromwell has never been busier. I hardly see my old friend these days.”
“Look to where the King is, there you will find his shadow.”
Cranmer laughed. “Indeed.” He paused and frowned. “The Observant Friars have requested that their order be exempted from the oath,” he said. “But Cromwell has made it clear this will not be allowed. They wish to keep the codicil, as far as the law of Christ allows, and the King, being so fond of their order has allowed this, for now, as long as they swear.”
“The King is as one with the law of Christ,” I said, wondering I believed this anymore. “Therefore their desire to include the qualification is meaningless.”
Cranmer gazed about the chamber and his eyes came to rest on the vellum New Testament. “A magnificent volume,” he said with admiration, running a delicate finger over the smooth pages.
“A gift, I think, from Master Tyndale,” I said quietly. “For aiding Richard Herman in gaining back his fellowship to the English House.”
“You fight on, even when you have won, for the good of the people,” said Cranmer. “I envy the purity of your soul, Majesty.”
“You should not,” I said. “I have done great evil, in so many ways, these past years. I thought, when I became Queen, I would leave behind the necessity of scheming and back-biting, but I have not. Although not every action taken against Katherine and her daughter was thought up by me, I have not encouraged the King to be merciful. This preys on my conscience.”
“Sometimes evil is done for no reason,” said Cranmer. “And sometimes people bring hardship upon themselves. We do not only fight a war of words, here, Majesty, as we struggle for the faith… we fight people too. Just as in any war, there are casualties, and if a foe will not surrender, even when beaten, we must continue to fight on, even if we know it will cause their deaths.”
“People already say I am killing Katherine,” I said. “And I am suspected of much with Mary as well.”
“God knows the truth, Majesty,” said my good friend. “And those who know you, love, honour and respect you, know it too. If you listen only to enemies, you become the horror they believe you to be. Listen instead to friends, and you will find other aspects of your character.” He smiled. “The good are not born good, Majesty. Goodness is a constant struggle, and only one who recognises his faults may prevail. It is with self-awareness arming us that we fight the sin inside us. When we recognise our flaws, we can see when and how we are about to slip, and we can right ourselves. Do not grieve for being aware of your sins. They are your guides to goodness; the markers in the sea showing where rocks lie hidden.”
“You should have been a poet, Eminence.”
“Sometimes I think I should know when to cease my prattling.” Cranmer smiled.
“No indeed, for as it says in Proverbs, the godly give good advice to their friends, the wicked lead them astray.”
“Whoever loves a pure heart and gracious speech will have the king as a friend,” Cranmer countered with his own verse, smiling at me. “You are a pure heart, my lady.”
“Will you hear my confession, Eminence?”
“If you so wish.”
I nodded. “I would unbind my heart to you. There is much I would like to say. Much of hatred and evil thought that I feel weighing on me.”
I knelt before my friend, and I told him much; all of the hurt and the pain I had confessed only in part to my confessors. I told him of my spite towards Henry. I told Cranmer of my fears for my children, the future, and… for me.
*
That afternoon, Henry came to say goodbye. He was to spend a few days in Hampton’s park, hunting deer and hawking. A rabble of his friends were prepared for their days of sport, and it might have seemed to a casual onlooker that Henry was about to spend days and nights solely in male company. But Jane had already told me this was not so.
“He is having Joanna brought out to meet him,” she whispered. “And there is another lady he is courting. Her name is Mary Perrot. I have been told she was o
nce his mistress, some years ago, and she has a child by him.”
“How old is the child?”
“The maid I spoke to said he was six years old, sister.”
I almost laughed. Six years old… Born in 1528, then. Henry must have been very surprised when I found out he had betrayed me, for it seemed he had been playing me for a fool for years. 1528… Wolsey had been alive then. Had he procured this jade for Henry? Had he hoped she might replace me?
Had I always been so blind?
“You should have them sent from court,” said Jane. “You have the power to do so.”
Did I? I wondered. What would Henry do if I shamed him by bringing his mistresses into plain view? “I will think about it, sister,” I said. Jane saw my face crumple and went to leave, but I thrust out a hand to catch her fox-fur sleeve. “Thank you,” I whispered.