“The priests all said he was possessed by a demon. The physicians shook their heads and murmured, ‘It is a quartan ague.’ But the apothecaries”—here Henry was overcome and could not stop laughing, as I struggled to keep my composure—“the apothecaries took one whiff of his piss and shouted, ‘It’s a love potion! He’s dying from a love potion!’”
At this a roar of laughter burst forth, loud and long, and even I had to smile. Yet it was a forced smile. For though I had not seen my father in many years, and had never loved him, it was evident to me that Henry was telling this cruel story in order to wound me, to avenge himself for my failure as a wife. And, I felt, he was dishonoring our daughter, who was even then becoming the one person I loved most, my dearest treasure.
I might not be able to breed sons, as Henry said—but I had given the realm a daughter worthy of her valiant grandmother, a daughter I would always think of as Isabella, no matter what other names she bore.
Her christening was worthy of her high birth and valor. The church blazed with the light of hundreds of wax tapers, the silver christening font shining and the red and blue and green tapestries hanging along the walls glinting with jewels. Four knights held a golden canopy above her while she was brought to the altar, and she was accorded every honor as heir to the throne. At Henry’s order, Thomas Wolsey had arranged it all, and was the princess’s godfather. He had undergone yet another elevation in rank and honor; he had become a member of the College of Cardinals in Rome, and there were those who predicted that Cardinal Wolsey would one day be chosen to serve as the Holy Father.
Only one thing marred the princess’s christening: the presence of Maria Juana, dressed in a costly silken gown and with ropes of fine pearls at her neck and wrists. King Francis had sent her to represent him as little Mary’s godmother, and her smile of satisfaction and air of superiority were evident to all—and exceedingly galling to me.
“I suppose it amused him to send his whore to his rival’s court,” was Elizabeth Boleyn’s sour comment after the ceremony ended and I was sitting among my women, embroidering a coverlet with the arms of Castile for the princess’s cradle. “King Francis imagines himself superior to King Henry in every way,” she went on. “He delights in mocking his adversaries. That way he does not have to fight them, to prove his own superiority. I have often heard my husband say so.”
Lady Boleyn, newly returned from France, was once again among my ladies-in-waiting, and I was very pleased to have her back. Her husband Thomas Boleyn had been among those who carried the golden canopy over the princess at her christening. Like Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas Boleyn was rising in responsibility and prominence.
“I know what my mother would have said about him,” I remarked without looking up from the needlework in my lap. “She would have called him a coward.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“Is it not true then, Your Highness, that Princess Mary will soon be betrothed to the coward’s son?”
It was my young maid of honor Bessie Blount who asked, her low sweet voice like liquid honey. Bessie had the most beautiful singing voice of any woman then at court, and her speaking voice too was very pleasing. But her words were unwelcome. Instead of answering her, I merely sighed and went on with my embroidery. After a moment Elizabeth Boleyn answered for me.
“Indeed it is true. My husband spent many hours with the French king’s secretaries drawing up the marriage contract. Princess Mary is pledged to wed King Francis’s son.”
I had hoped that my daughter would become the wife of my nephew Charles, the stolid, silent boy I had met many years earlier when my sister Juana came to England. According to Master Reveles, who had seen Charles at the court of the Archduchess Margaret, the quiet boy had grown into a subdued, slow-witted young man. And now this young man had inherited the crown of Spain, for he was my father’s heir.
What could be more fitting, I thought, than a union between my daughter and my royal nephew, who was King of Spain? But I was not to be allowed to make that decision. The princess would marry the coward’s son, and become, in time, Queen of France.
I had no wish to be reminded of that, and was grateful to hear Maria de Salinas ask Lady Boleyn about her own daughters, and whether they were yet betrothed.
I thought I saw a flicker of uncertainty cross Elizabeth Boleyn’s attractive features before she answered. Then she brightened.
“Mary, our eldest, is not yet betrothed,” she said, “though I have good reason to believe she soon will be. She is of high birth and fair to look upon, and her charm and good temper are very pleasing.”
Many nods of agreement met Elizabeth Boleyn’s words. Although her husband’s Boleyn ancestry was not noble, Elizabeth herself was a Howard, of very high birth indeed, as I have said.
“Our son George is appointed to the privy chamber as the king’s page,” she added.
“And your younger daughter Anne, is she yet promised to a nobleman?” Maria de Salinas asked.
I paused in my embroidery to wait for the answer. I remembered the miniature portrait of Anne that Elizabeth Boleyn had shown me, with its deep scratch, and her account of how Anne had defaced it because it displeased her.
“Of that we are not certain as yet. There was talk of a Flemish nobleman, the Seigneur de Courbaron—” she began, then broke off abruptly, as if uncertain how to go on.
“She is young yet, is she not?” I asked.
“She is nearly fourteen.” Elizabeth paused again, then went on in a much lower tone. “In truth, we are at a loss to know what is best for her. Thomas and I are very nearly at our wits’ end.”
10
The sullen, disheveled girl who stood at her mother’s side in my apartments was taller than I was, and much more slender. Her nose was too large, her thin-lipped mouth too small, and I could see that she disliked being there.
She is a wayward girl, I thought. She will never be brought to obedience. There is far too much pride and defiance in her dark brown eyes, though they are quite lovely eyes, and no doubt alluring to men. Why then had no husband been found for her?
Lady Boleyn had asked if she could bring Anne with her when she spoke to me privately, and I agreed.
“She is willful,” Elizabeth began. “She has been sent away from the archduchess’s court in disgrace.”
“What manner of disgrace?”
“For—the sin of lust, Your Highness.”
“It’s a foul lie!” Anne burst out. “I am much envied by other girls. They tell lies about me, so that they can have me sent away. So that they can have all the men to themselves!”
“No more! Or I will have you whipped.” At her mother’s exasperated command, Anne grew silent.
“Whenever she is accused,” Lady Boleyn said to me, “she blames others. She will never admit that she has done anything wrong! She refuses to be repentant.”
“Do you confess your sins?” I asked Anne, “As all Christians are taught to do?”
A slight nod from Anne.
“Would you confess your sins to a cardinal of the church, if I asked him to hear your confession?” She blanched.
“Not if he is a sinner, who has a wife in Ipswich and three children!”
Anne was repeating what was often said about Thomas Wolsey, that like many among those in holy orders, including my own confessor Fray Diego, he was unchaste and had a family. Fray Diego had been dismissed from my household and sent back to Spain as punishment for his own tavern sins, sins of the flesh displayed once too often and too flagrantly.
“I see that you have been unable to teach your daughter to curb her tongue or guard her purity,” I went on, as Anne glared at me, her dark eyes full of suspicion, saying nothing. “If she is to be brought into a noble or royal household, she must be trained in courtly manners. She must learn how to make herself agreeable, how not to give offense by anything she says or does. Otherwise, Anne,” I added, turning once again to the girl, “I am very much afraid that you will not marry.�
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A brief silence fell. I could see that instead of taking my ominous warning to heart, Anne was finding everything I said tedious.
“We had thought that a union between the young Ormond heir, James Butler, and Anne could be quietly arranged,” Elizabeth Boleyn offered, “as it would have settled an old quarrel over the title of earl.”
Anne snorted. “A squealing piglet, a short-sighted blinking boy chorister too fragile to do anything but sing like a girl!”
Ignoring Anne’s outburst, Lady Boleyn went on.
“But even when the boy’s father was assured that Anne’s dowry would be doubled and that he himself would be promised a place in the king’s privy chamber, he refused. He knew of her banishment, and what was being said about her at the archduchess’s court.”
Suddenly Anne pushed up one lace-edged sleeve of her gown, to reveal deep red scars that ran from above her elbow nearly to her wrist.
“This is my marriage portion. My dowry.”
“Thomas whipped her for her transgressions, and for staining our family’s honor, but she would not be cowed,” Elizabeth explained.
I thought it stark punishment indeed. Even when at his most angry, when sputtering with rage, my father had not dared to inflict such a punishment on any of his children. I had heard it said that the English were brutal to their sons and daughters. Now I saw why.
“If Butler will not have her for his son, we fear that no one will,” Elizabeth Boleyn was saying.
“There is always the convent,” I put in after a time. “It is no disgrace to live among the holy sisters, and the daughters of noble houses who do not marry often find contentment there.”
Anne’s eyes blazed at this suggestion. “Such a sorry life might satisfy you, Your Highness, but I—”
“You will do as you are told!” Elizabeth would have slapped her daughter had I not intervened.
“I have heard enough!” I said to them both. “I shall not insist that you make your confession to Cardinal Wolsey, Anne, but you must ask forgiveness of your own confessor.”
“She will, I assure you,” Lady Boleyn said as she grasped Anne’s scarred arm, making her daughter wince. “And if she does not, she will be whipped until she does.”
Mother and daughter bowed to me and were about to leave the chamber.
“There is one thing more,” I said. “True repentance cannot be forced, it must come from the heart.” I knew, even as I spoke, how pompous—even sententious—I must sound. Had I not known, the scornful look in Anne’s eyes would have told me. Yet I went on.
“Repentance is a spiritual gift, as is truthfulness itself. Anne, I insist that you answer two questions truthfully.”
I led her to the prie-dieu and told her to kneel. She hesitated, looking from her mother to me, unsure what to do. Then with a defiant swish of the satin skirt of her gown, she knelt on the embroidered cushion.
“Anne, do you avow that all that is being said about you and the Seigneur de Courbaron is untrue?”
She nodded.
“And do you avow, to your mother and to me, that you are a virgin?”
She nodded once again, though less readily and with less conviction.
“Then we will accept your word and your vow, and not let this matter trouble us further. You may get up now.”
I felt a wave of relief, Elizabeth Boleyn squared her shoulders and settled into calm, and even Anne appeared to be subdued as she got up slowly from where she knelt and stood beside her mother, looking down at the floor. She seemed to be trembling, but whether from fear or anger I could not have said.
All was quiet for a time.
“Now then,” I remarked at length to Anne, “what is to be done with you?”
I scrutinized her, taking in once again her scrawny, emaciated body and unappealing face with its overly large nose and thin-lipped small mouth. Then I looked again, doubting my own eyes. For it seemed to me that she had become even less appealing, more an awkward overgrown child than the unruly, wayward girl with the lovely dark eyes who had challenged me.
Her carapace of defiance had crumbled.
“I am told that Queen Claude welcomes nobly born girls to her household, girls who may—how shall I put it?—girls who may lack polish and self-assurance.” I smiled. “She molds these awkward young girls into marriageable young ladies, who know how to dress with elegance, how to present themselves pleasingly, how to dance—”
“Oh, I am already an excellent dancer, Your Highness,” Anne interrupted me.
“She is indeed,” Elizabeth Boleyn put in, smiling for the first time that afternoon.
“Why not send her to France then?” I said, relieved that the interview was at an end. “It would seem the wisest thing to do.”
* * *
What pride I felt on the day my fair, blond daughter Mary was betrothed! She was not yet three years old in that October of the Year of Our Lord 1518. A small, fragile girl in her regal gown of cloth of gold, agreeable and poised and much admired.
The Great Chamber at Greenwich was so overcrowded and so full of smoke from the hearth fires and cressets that I was afraid she would find it hard to breathe, especially in the tightly fitting golden gown she was wearing with its jeweled stomacher and with many heavy gold chains around her delicate neck.
But Mary was stronger and more resilient than she appeared. She had survived the dread scourge of the sweat, that plague that had killed so many babies during the previous year. She was energetic and clever, quick to learn and eager to please. When her godfather Cardinal Wolsey reached for her hand and placed a ring on her finger in token of her betrothal, she smiled—and my own sense of pride and satisfaction grew.
I had done all I could to make certain that Mary would be seen as the undoubted heir to her father’s throne. Her gown, her mantle furred with ermine, even her feathered cap so like the one her father wore were all reminders to those who were watching her that she was indeed the only rightful heir—or so I hoped.
For she had a rival. Bessie Blount was once again said to be carrying my husband’s child, and this time it was no idle tale spread by the spiteful Maria Juana—a tale that turned out to be nothing more than a rumor. This time I feared that the gossip was true. And if Bessie’s unborn child was a boy, then Mary’s rights might be ignored.
A loud wailing cry from the little dauphin broke into the silence of the immense room, startling me. He was not yet a year old, squirming and crying in his nurse’s arms. How much more satisfying the ceremony would be if Mary’s fiancé was my nephew Charles, I thought. How my mother would have rejoiced to know that the two royal cousins were to become husband and wife.
The more I tried to banish these vain musings, the more they plagued me. Yet I knew that there was nothing I could do to change what was—only what was yet to be, if I had the courage.
It was at the Christmas masquing of that same year, the year of Mary’s betrothal to the dauphin, that I knew for certain of Bessie’s condition. For months Bessie’s round, smiling face had been growing fuller, her cheeks more plump and her generous breasts more ripe and raised. When Henry chose another of my maids instead of Bessie—always his favorite partner—in the masque of “Ladies of Castile,” and Bessie, cheerful and blushing, did not join in the dancing at all and left the banqueting chamber after only a few hours, there could be no doubt: she was indeed pregnant.
And when, the following spring, she was delivered of a son—the king’s son—and he was given the name Henry Fitzroy, I wept.
I wept, in secret, night after night, while doing my best to appear unperturbed when others were near during the day. I confess that, to my everlasting shame, when my grief and anger were at their worst, I not only wept, I prayed that Bessie’s son would not survive.
I confess it—and I regret it.
Yet I understood it. I understood this sinful, uncharitable urge I felt to destroy the boy who stood between my dearly loved daughter and her inheritance, her destiny. I did not want Mar
y (who I still thought of quite often as Isabella) to be thrust aside, her worth and royal lineage disregarded, merely because she was a princess and not a prince.
That Henry Fitzroy was my husband’s natural son was of no importance. What mattered, if he survived, was that he was a son, and would be called prince and regarded as heir to his father’s throne. Mary would be forgotten.
If Henry Fitzroy survived.
How I wrestled with my conscience that spring! Each time I saw Bessie Blount, or overheard a whispered conversation about Henry Fitzroy, or saw him given an honor or a title (he received many), I clenched my fists and wished him out of the way. Many a night I wished him dead, as my own babies had died, all but Mary. It was Mary who deserved every honor and title, not the wriggling little runt of a boy who had no right to the throne of England. He was a bastard, conceived in lust, Mary was the true daughter of a king and queen, conceived honorably and already betrothed to the dauphin of France.
Surely it was Mary, not Henry Fitzroy, who bore the favor of the Lord. And I would defend Mary and protect her rights, at whatever cost, even if it meant—what? Could I really bring myself to do harm to an innocent child in his cradle?
It had happened before. I remembered what my old duenna Doña Elvira had once confided to me about my mother.
“The great Queen Isabella,” she said in low tones on that long-ago afternoon, “was far from scrupulous in all she did. It was rumored—and I believed the rumors, and still believe them—that she hounded her niece, who was the rightful heir to the throne of Castile, into exile. That she bribed and threatened the grandees of Castile to make them support her and not the rightful heir. Any woman who wins the throne of a realm such as Castile must fight and lie, threaten and even bribe those who oppose her. ‘Women are thought to be weak,’ I heard her say more than once. ‘We must make ourselves appear strong, indeed invincible, in order to crush our enemies.’”
Doña Elvira had had a gleam in her eye when she told me these astonishing things, a gleam of triumph, as if she had played some small part in my mother’s transgressions and ultimate triumph.
The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon Page 13