by Jean Plaidy
But enough of introspection! He was trying hard to regain his youth. There was one—and she soon to be in his arms, looking up at him with sweet humility—who would assure him that he was the greatest of men as well as the mightiest of kings; who asked for nothing but the honor of being his mistress. Sweet balm to the scorching wounds the black-eyed witch on the bed had given him. But at the moment the witch was sweetly complimenting him, and he had ever found her irresistible in that mood. The other could wait awhile.
“My own, yes,” he said. “You shall hear me sing it, but not now.”
“I shall await the hearing with pleasure.”
He looked at her sharply. Did she mock? Did she like his songs? Did she compare them with her brother’s, with Wyatt’s, with Surrey’s? Did she think they suffered by comparison?
She was smiling very sweetly. Absently she twirled a lock of her hair. Her eyes were brilliant tonight, and there was a flush in her cheeks. He was taken aback at the contemplation of her beauty, even though he had come to know it too familiarly.
The little one would be awaiting him. Her homage was very sweet. He would sing his song to her, and have no doubts of her approval—but for that reason it was not as sweet as Anne’s. She thought him wonderful. She was not clever; a woman should not be clever; her mission in life was to please her lord. And yet . . . he was proud of his Queen. But what matter? It was but manly to love; there was little harm in a dash of light loving here and there; the ladies expected it, and a king should please his subjects.
“Henry . . .” she said. He paused, patting the diamond which was the centre button of his coat. “There is something I would say to you.”
“Can it not wait?”
“I think you would rather hear it now.”
“Then tell me quickly.”
She sat up on the bed and held out her hands to him, laughing.
“But it is news I would not care to hurry over.” She was watching his face eagerly
“What!” said the King. “Anne . . . what meanest thou?”
He took her hands, and she raised herself to a kneeling position.
“Tell me,” she said, putting her face close to his, “what news would you rather I gave, what news would please you more than any?”
His heart was beating wildly. Could it be what he had longed to hear? Could it really be true? And why not? It was the most natural . . . it was what all expected, what all were waiting for.
“Anne!” he said.
She nodded.
He put his arms about her; she slid hers about his neck.
“I thought to please you,” she said.
“Please me!” He was hilarious as a schoolboy. “There could be naught to give me greater pleasure.”
“Then I am happy.”
“Anne, Anne, when . . . ?”
“Not for eight long months. Still . . .”
“You are sure?”
She nodded, and he kissed her again.
“This pleases me more than all the jewels in the world,” he told her.
“It pleases me as much as it pleases you. There have been times of late . . . when I have felt . . .”
He stopped her words by kissing her.
“Bah! Then thou wert indeed a foolish girl, Anne!”
“Indeed I was. Tell me, were you about to go on an important mission? For I would fain talk of this . . .”
He laughed. “Important mission! By God! I would desert the most important of missions to hear this news!”
He had forgotten her already, thought Anne exultantly. Here was the tender lover returned. It had only needed this.
He did not leave her, not that night, nor the next. He had forgotten the demure little girl; he had merely been passing the time with her. Anne was with child. This time a son; certainly a son. Why not! All was well. He had done right to marry Anne. This was God’s answer!
Henry felt sure of his people’s joy, once his son was born. It would but need that to have done with the murmuring and grumbling. He forgot the girl with whom he had been pleasing himself; he was the loyal husband now; the father of a daughter, about to be the father of a son. He gave up the idea of going to France, and instead went on a tour through the midlands with Anne—belligerent and mighty. This is the Queen I have chosen. Be good subjects, and love her—or face my wrath!
Subjects en masse were disconcerting. A king might punish a few with severity, but what of that? The Dacres affair was proof that the people were not with Anne. Dacres was devoted wholeheartedly to the Catholic cause, and thus to Katharine; and for this reason, Northumberland—still a great admirer of Anne—had quarreled with the man and accused him of treason. To Cromwell and Cranmer it seemed a good moment to conduct Lord Dacres to the block, so they brought him to London, where he was tried by his peers. The Lords, with unexpected courage and with a defiance unheard of under Henry’s despotic rule, had acquitted Dacres. This would seem to Henry like treason on the part of the peers, but it was much more; it meant that these gentlemen knew they had public support behind them, and that was backed up by hatred of Anne—whether she was with child or not made no difference. It shook Henry; it shattered Anne and her supporters. It seemed that everyone was waiting now for the son she promised to produce; that of course would make all the difference; Henry could never displace the mother of his son. Once Anne gave birth to a boy, who showed some promise of becoming a man, she was safe; until then she was tottering.
Anne was very uneasy; more so than anyone, with perhaps the exception of George, could possibly guess. She would wander in the grounds around Greenwich, and brood on the future. She wished to be alone; sometimes when she was in the midst of a laughing crowd she would steal away. Anne was very frightened.
Each day she hoped and prayed for some sign that she might be pregnant; there was none. She had planned boldly, and it seemed as if her plan had failed. What will become of me? she wondered. She could not keep her secret much longer.
She had believed, when she told the King that she was with child, that soon she must be. Why was it that she was not? Something told her the fault lay with him, and this idea was supported by Katharine’s disastrous experiences and her own inability to produce another child. There was Elizabeth, but Elizabeth would not do. She murmured: “Oh, Elizabeth, my daughter, why wast thou not born a boy!”
She watched the clouds drifting across the summer sky; she looked at the green leaves on the trees and murmured: “Before they fall I shall have to tell him. A woman cannot go on for ever pretending she is pregnant!”
Perhaps by then . . . Yes, that had been the burden of her thoughts . . . Perhaps by then that which had been a fabrication of her tortured mind would be a reality. Perhaps by then there would be a real child in her womb, not an imaginary one.
The days passed. Already people were glancing at her oddly. Is the Queen well? How small she is! Can she really be with child? What think you? Is something wrong? Is this her punishment for the way she treated poor Queen Katharine?
She sat under the trees, praying for a child. How many women had sat under these trees, frightened because they were to bear a child! And now here was one who was terrified because she was not to bear one, because she, feeling herself in a desperate situation, had seen in such a lie a possible way out of her difficulties.
Her sister Mary came and sat beside her. Mary was plumper, more matronly, but still the same Mary although perhaps overripe now. Still unable to say no, I’ll warrant, thought Anne, and was suddenly filled with sharp envy.
“Anne,” said Mary, “I am in great trouble.”
Anne’s lips curled; she wondered what Mary’s trouble was, and how it would compare with her own.
“What trouble?” asked Anne, finding sudden relief as her thoughts necessarily shifted from herself to her sister.
“Anne, dost know Stafford?”
“What!” cried Anne. “Stafford the gentleman usher?”
“The very one,” said Mary. “Well . . . he and I
. . .”
“A gentleman usher!” said Anne.
“All the world seemed to set so little by me, and he so much,” said Mary. “I thought I could take no better way out but to take him and forsake all other ways.”
“The King will never consent,” said Anne.
“Perhaps when he knows I am to have a child . . .”
Anne turned on her sister in horror. Mary had been a widow for five years. Naturally one would not expect her to live a nun’s life, but one did expect her to show a little care. Oh, thought Anne, how like Mary! How like her!
Mary hastened to explain. “He was young, and love overcame us. And I loved him as he did me. . . .”
Anne was silent.
“Ah!” went on Mary, “I might have had a man of higher birth, but I could never have had one who could have loved me so well . . . nor a more honest man.”
Anne looked cold, and Mary could not bear coldness now; she did not know of her sister’s trials; she pictured her happy and secure, rejoicing in her queenly state. It seemed unkind to have from her no word for reassurance.
Mary stood up. “I had rather be with him than I were the greatest queen!” she cried, and began to run across the grass into the palace.
Anne watched her. Mary—a widow—was with child, and afraid because of it. Anne—a queen and a wife—was not, and far, far more afraid than Mary could understand, because of it! Anne threw back her head and laughed immoderately; and when she had done, she touched her checks and there were tears upon them.
When Anne told Henry there was not to be a child, he was furious.
“How could such a mistake occur!” he demanded suspiciously, his little eyes cold and cruel.
“Simply!” she flared back. “And it did, so why argue about it!”
“I have been tricked!” he cried. “It seems that God has decreed I shall never have a son.”
And he turned away, for there was a certain speculation in his eyes which he did not wish her to see. He went to the demure little lady-in-waiting.
“Ha!” he said. “It seems a long time since I kissed you, sweetheart!”
She was meek, without reproaches. How different from Anne! he thought, and remembered resentfully how she had commanded him during the days of his courtship, and how when she had become his mistress she continued to berate him.
By God, he thought, I’ll have none of that. Who brought her up, eh? Who could send her back whence she came? Women should be meek and submissive, as this one was.
Anne watched angrily, trying to follow her brother’s advice and finding herself unable to do so.
“Madge,” she said to her cousin, a lovely girl of whom she was very fond, “go to that girl and tell her I would see her this minute.”
Madge went, and awaiting the arrival of the girl, Anne paced up and down, trying to compose herself, trying to rehearse what she would say to her.
The girl came, eyes downcast, very frightened, for Anne’s eyes were blazing in spite of her efforts to remain calm.
“I would have you know,” said Anne, “that I have been hearing evil reports of my ladies. I am sending you back to your home. Be ready to start as soon as you hear from me that you are to do so.”
The girl scarcely looked at Anne; she blushed scarlet, and her lips quivered.
Sly creature! thought Anne angrily. And she the king’s mistress! What he can see in the girl I do not understand, except that she is a trifle pretty and very meek. Doubtless she tells him he is wonderful! Her lips twisted scornfully, and then suddenly she felt a need to burst into tears. Here was she, the Queen, and must resort to such methods to rid herself of her rivals! Was everyone in this court against her? Her father was anxious now, she knew, wondering how long she would retain her hold on the King; Norfolk no longer troubled to be courteous; they had quarrelled; he had stamped out of the room on the last occasion she had seen him, muttering that of her which she would prefer not to remember; Suffolk watched, sly, secretly smiling; the Princess Mary was openly defiant. And now this girl!
“Get you gone from my presence!” said Anne. “You are banished from court.”
The girl’s reply was to go straight to the King, who imediately countermanded the Queen’s order.
He left the girl and went to Anne.
“What means this?” he demanded.
“I will not have you parade your infidelities right under my nose!”
“Madam!” roared the King. “I would have you know I am master here!”
“Nevertheless,” she said, “you cannot expect me to smile on your mistresses and to treat them as though they were the most faithful of my attendants.”
He said coarsely: “If that is what I wish, you shall do it . . . as others did before you!”
“You mistake me,” she answered.
“I mistake you not. From where do you derive your authority if not from me! Consider from what I lifted you. I have but to lift my finger to send you back whence you came!”
“Why not lift it then?” she blazed. “Your pretty little mistress doubtless would grace the throne better than I. She is so brilliant! Her conversation is so witty! The people would acclaim her. But, Henry, do you not think she might put you a little in the shade. . . . Such wit . . . such brilliance!”
He looked at her with smoldering eyes; there were occasions when he could forget he was a king and put his hands about that little neck, and press and press until there was no breath left in her. But a king does not do murder; others do it for him. It was a quick thought that passed through his mind and was gone before he had time to realize it had been there.
He turned and strode out of the room.
Jane Rochford had overheard that quarrel. She was excited; it gave her a pleasurable thrill to know that Anne was having difficulties with her husband, just as she herself had with George, though with a difference.
Jane crept away and came back later, begging a word with the Queen. Could the ladies be dismissed? Jane whispered. What she had to say was for Anne’s ears alone.
She expressed her sympathy.
“Such a sly wench! I declare she deliberately sets out to trap the King. All that modesty and reluctance . . .” Jane glanced sideways at Anne; had her barb struck a vulnerable spot? Oh, how did it feel, where you have shown reluctance to a king and complete indifference to the feelings of his wife, to find your position suddenly reversed; yourself the neglected wife and another careless of your feelings? Jane was so excited she could scarcely talk; she wanted to laugh at this, because it seemed so very amusing.
“But I have not come to commiserate with you, dear sister. I want to help. I have a plan. Were I to let her people know that she is in danger of disgracing herself—oh, I need not mention His Majesty—it might be a friendly warning. . . . I would try. I trow that, were she removed from court, the King would be the most loyal of husbands; and how can a woman get children when her husband has no time for her, but only for other women!”
Jane spoke vehemently, but Anne was too sick at heart to notice it. Everywhere she looked, disaster was threatening. She was young and healthy, but her husband was neither so young nor so healthy; she could not get a child, when the most urgent matter she had ever known was that she should first get with child, and that the child should be a son. The King’s health was doubtless to blame, but the King never blamed himself; when he was in fault he blamed someone else. There was evidence of that all about him, and had been for years. Francis had made an alarming move; he had begun to talk once more of a match between his son and Mary. What could that mean, but one thing! Mary was a bastard; how could a bastard marry the son of the King of France?
There was only one answer: The King of France no longer regarded Mary as a bastard. Her hopes had soared when Clement died and Paul III took his place; Paul had seemed more inclined to listen to reason, but what did she know of these matters? Only what it was deemed wise to tell her! Francis, whom she had regarded as a friend to herself, who had shown decided frie
ndship when they had met at Calais, had decided it was unsafe to quarrel with Charles and with Rome. France was entirely Catholic—that was the answer. Francis could not stand out against his people; his sympathy might be with Anne, but a king’s sympathy must be governed by diplomacy; Francis was showing a less friendly face to Anne. She saw now that the whole of Europe would be against the marriage; that would have meant nothing, had Henry been with her, had Henry been the devoted lover he had remained during the waiting years. But Henry was turning from her; this sly, meek, pretty girl from the opposite camp was proof of that. She was filled with terror, for she remembered the negotiations which had gone on before news of a possible divorce had reached Katharine. Everyone at court had known before Katharine; they had whispered of The King’s Secret Matter. Was the King now indulging once more in a secret matter? Terrified, she listened to Jane; she was ready to clutch at any straw. That was foolish—she might have known Jane was no diplomatist. Jane’s art was in listening at doors, slyly setting one person against another.
Henry discovered what Jane was about.
“What!” he shouted. “This is the work of Rochford’s wife. She shall be committed to the Tower by the Traitor’s Gate.” She wept and stormed, cursing herself for her folly. To think she had come to this by merely trying to help Anne! What would become of her now? she wondered. If ever she got out of the Tower alive, she would be clever, subtle. . . . Once before she had been careless; this time she had been equally foolish, but she had learned her lesson at last. George would bear her no gratitude for what she had done; he would say: “What a clumsy fool you are, Jane!” Or if he did not say it, he would think it.
All this she had done for George really . . . and he cared not, had no feeling for her at all. “Methinks I begin to hate him!” she murmured, and looked through her narrow windows onto the cobbles beneath.