“It was a personal gown brought from Spain. We could not expect —“
“Well I do expect. That is the royal christening gown; I don’t care where it origins are. Master Cromwell will write to her establishment and order that she send the gown.”
“Sweetheart, it is of no matter and we need not involve her.”
“It is of great matter, Henry!” Anne turned on me, her sharp temper suddenly alive. “I know you followed her around like a sick pup most of the time and are not used to standing up to her. Lord knows you could never win an argument with her. But I am prepared to fight for our son even if you are not!”
I swallowed, leaning back against the desk behind me. There was little I could do or say to her; to yell at a woman in her condition would be unthinkable. If a member of my council had spoken to me thus I would have beaten them about the head; indeed I had struck men for saying less. But this was not a woman I could send away from court or a man I could strike into submission; this was my wife and she was holding every card.
“I will have Master Cromwell write to her and request the gown.”
“Order it, Henry.”
“It shall be an order.”
Pleased, Anne allowed me to kiss her before she departed, ready to rain hell on another part of the castle. But as long as she held my son I would swallow my pride — and my anger — and allow her to continue.
“Your Majesty, I do not believe that the Dowager Princess Catherine will part with the garment,” Cromwell said even as he wrote out the order.
“Nor do I,” I answered before calling to a page. “Send for George Boleyn. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently.”
“Your Majesty?”
I looked up, resigned to the fact that slipping past my herald must be a Boleyn trait. I remembered that Anne and George’s oldest sister Mary also possessed that quality, one that had come in handy when she had shared my chambers.
“Ah, George, my most valuable courtier,” I said, gesturing for him to join me in a chair by the fire. “I needed to speak with you in regards to your sister.”
“What has she requested this time?” he asked with a smile. I envied him his easy demeanor and ability to control his sister even when she was at her worst.
“The christening gown used for Lady Mary.”
George looked unconcerned.
“Is it no longer in existence? Surely such an item would have been kept.”
“Yes it was,” I answered. “It is in the possession of the Dowager Princess. She brought it from Spain.”
“Indeed,” George said, sitting back in his chair. “That will not be an easy item to obtain.”
“Yes, and when we are denied it, I would like to have an answer for the Queen.”
“Perhaps it can be suggested to her that she would not want a gown used by a pretender to the throne?”
I silently cursed Cromwell for having not thought of this argument.
“And is the christening gown used by your mother available?” George continued.
“I have no knowledge of it,” I said. “But that could be easily found out.”
“I would have that prepared and, if it cannot be found, then have one created and this can be the royal christening gown’s first use.”
Silence sat between us for a moment as I pondered what would have to be done.
“George, I must thank you,” I said rising out of my chair, he standing with me. “As soon as we receive the negative answer from the Dowager Princess I will speak with the Queen, saying that she would not want a pretender’s gown.”
“Your Majesty,” George said gently. “Perhaps it would be better if I spoke of it.”
I furrowed my brow and waited for him to continue.
“This way the Queen can approach you with the belief that this was her idea. It may dissuade her from any more — scenes of anger.”
I nodded, seeing the wisdom in this, and allowed the boy to leave. In the past years of my courting his sister he had become a valuable ally.
As I knew it would, Catherine’s refusal came swiftly. Anne was right; I could make it an order and send troops to go retrieve the gown. But it seemed too heart-wrenching a prospect. Catherine was no longer a part of my life, and I wanted it to stay that way. Any entanglement that could come from this would only prolong my interaction with her.
And if I was truthful with myself, I did not want the same gown that had adorned my daughter with Catherine on the son I was to have with Anne. The Lady Mary’s obstinacy in refusing to recognize the harm her mother had caused me had brought me no end of frustration. She had even told Anne that she would not recognize her as Queen to her face, something Anne still held against her. It was wrong for a father and daughter to fight thus, but I could not see a way that I could acknowledge her without her admitting her faults.
Instead of announcing Catherine’s refusal to Anne, and thus the world, I waited for my wife to come to me. Sure enough, a few days after receiving Catherine’s letter I received another visit.
“Henry, I came to see if we had heard from her.”
I looked over at Anne and allowed Cromwell to leave the room before answering.
“We have,” I said, not wanting to contribute.
“And what has she said?”
I took a deep breath before responding.
“She has denied our request. As you knew she would, Anne.”
“That obstinate woman and her daughter will never stop fighting us, Henry.”
“I agree, but I do not think this is what we should be fighting them on.”
“No,” she said as she begun to pace in front of me. “We must always fight them, on all fronts. We will not be safe until they acknowledge me.”
“Anne, what more could I do?” I said, the anger I was feeling at her hysteria starting to come through. “I will not demand that they send something that is her private possession to us, not when it will do us no good. There is no purpose to this fight.”
“I see that I must continue this alone,” she answers, turning away from me. “You will not fight for your me and you will not fight for your son —“
“How have I not fought?” I screamed, losing control of my concealed anger. I had held so much back for the past months that I could no longer contain it. “I have made you queen, and torn down she who was in your place! I have banished her and my daughter away from court and away from each other! And I have broken with the church in Rome, simply to marry you. What else could I do for you, Anne?”
Anne remained silent, her curved back away from me, and arms around her stomach as if she could protect the child from what I said. Finally, her voice meek, she spoke.
“I am not yet secure —“
“That is right,” I cut her off, my anger having lessened by watching her frightened figure. “You are not secure. But with the birth of your son you will be, christening gowns be damned.”
Anne nodded and after a moment turned back to face me. The change from how she had been while I had yelled at her was amazing. Her shoulders shifted and she straightened her back as much as she could. Her head raised and she once again looked like the Queen of England.
“I have given it thought,” she said, her voice once again strong. “And do not believe that we should use a gown that was brought into this country by a false queen. I will have one made in England for the birth of the English heir.”
With that, she bowed to me slightly and exited the room, leaving me and my bewilderment behind.
Chapter Three
September, 1533
No sooner had we arrived at Hampton Court than Anne had gone into her lying in. Special chambers had been prepared and I observed them myself before she entered.
I myself could not have stood the stifling room. Heavy tapestries hung around the room covering every window but one, which was rarely opened to let in air. Incense was burned in the corner and I had ignored the wooden chair that seemed more like a device that would be found in the Tower.
I was assured by the midwives that these things were necessary, and after years of watching Catherine’s failures I did not want anything to go wrong with Anne.
I turned to face the door when she entered and witnessed her face become pale.
“Surely, all of this is not necessary,” she said, her voice choked from the heavy air.
“It is, Your Majesty,” her midwife replied. “The room has been fashioned in accordance with the laws created by Margaret Beufort, may God rest her soul.”
The oppressive nature of the room did remind me of my grandmother and I shuttered, determined not to re-enter the room again.
“Sweetheart,” I said, walking to my wife with my arms outstretched and what I hoped would pass for a smile on my face. “My own mother gave birth in a room much like this and managed it with her mother-in-law at her side. You will find it most agreeable.”
Anne nodded and straightened her back before turning towards the large bed. I watched her ladies help her in and waved gently to her before backing out of the room. For the first time since I had met the formidable woman, Anne looked small and helpless, gazing around her room as if scared.
I waited until the door was shut firmly behind me; it would remain that way for much of the time to come. I turned to one of the midwives who had followed me out.
“How long will she be in there?”
“She is due in four weeks, Your Majesty,” she responded with a curtsey. “And she will remain in seclusion for the following two weeks until she has been —“
The woman trailed off, looking confused for a moment, and glanced to the priest who was in attendance.
“Until she has been churched,” he finished for her before glancing up at me. “Unless it is now Your Majesty’s wish as Supreme Head of the Church that women are no longer churched after giving birth.”
“What?” I asked, confused, “No, of course that will continue. It would be a sin to have an unclean woman about.”
“Well, then it will be two weeks after the birth that she will be prepared for visitors.” The midwife looked happy to have an answer for me and smiled in an open manner, the pock marks around her face stretched over her dimples.
“Very well,” I responded. “When Her Majesty asks, tell her I am in attendance here in the outer chamber and do not wish to disturb her. Remind her that she must rest for the safety of her child and that I am not allowed in her chambers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the midwife and priest both said, bowing to me deeply. I nodded before turning and exiting, beckoning a page of mine to attend to me as I walked.
“Go to Master Cromwell and tell him to prepare for our journey to Oatlands. Then send a message to Sir Charles Brandon to make plans to travel there himself. Tell him there is hunting to be had.”
The boy nodded at my words and ran ahead of me as I traveled to my chambers, prepared to give my chamberlain those same orders.
I spent three weeks hunting before returning to Hampton Court. Cromwell had been left behind to send me periodic updates on my wife; he was sure she had not realized my absence. Brandon had not been the only courtier to accompany me; the Duke of Norfolk had likewise decided that his niece did not need him in attendance. Sir Francis Weston and Sir Thomas Wyatt the poet had rounded out our numbers; I had made sure that their good friend George Boleyn had remained with the court and his sister. It would help keep up the appearance to Anne that I was still there, and he did not need to know about Alice, who had been keeping me company for the past months.
We were preparing for another day of the hunt, preparing the horses before the sun rose when a horse came riding up to the stables. A young man dropped out of the saddle and immediately went down onto one knee.
“Your Majesty,” he said breathlessly, “Her Majesty the Queen has fallen into childbirth. May God bless her.”
The entire party stood still for a moment, staring at the young man before I realized what he was saying.
“Praise be to God,” I said, “The Prince of Wales will shortly be with us. Men, we shall put off the hunt for today and instead ride for Hampton Court.”
I turned to my chamberlain, who had just exited the kitchens.
“Get this young man some breakfast and a sovereign for his troubles. Then have the house sent to Hampton Court. I expect everything there on the morrow.”
“Yes Your Majesty,” he said with a bow, turning to re-enter the house.
“Oh and make sure Alice is gone,” I called after him. He turned back to bow again, showing he had heard my order and I left him there to mount my horse.
“Men!” I called out when they were prepared, “To Her Majesty, Queen Anne and to my son, the Prince of Wales!”
I allowed my stead to rear slightly before pushing him into a gallop, and hearing the whoops and calls of the men behind me, rushed towards the bedside of my wife.
Anne was still in childbirth when we arrived at Hampton Court. Cromwell waited outside by the stables to greet me and inform me that there had been no change. I nodded to him. For the first time since she had entered her chambers, I went to the Queen’s rooms, stopping in the outer chamber.
“How goes it?” I asked the priest I had spoken to before, waving aside his bow.
“Well, Your Majesty,” he replied with a smile. “We spoke to the Queen as you wished and she is quite calm and ready for the struggle she now faces. A Prince of Wales shall be here shortly!”
“Praise be to God,” I muttered, sinking into a chair by the fireplace. I waved for Brandon to do the same; he was the only one who had followed me all the way to Anne’s rooms.
I called for Cromwell to attend to me. When he sank to one knee beside my chair, I spoke.
“Where is George Boleyn?”
“I will have him sent for, Your Majesty,” Cromwell answered. “I do not believe he knows of her condition.”
“Does not know of her condition?” I repeated. “Where has he been?”
“George Boleyn has frequently been visiting the —“ Cromwell paused here, looking down at his hands. “The village, Your Majesty.”
“He means the whorehouses,” Charles said with a snort, and with one glance at Cromwell’s discomfort, I knew my friend spoke the truth.
“Ah, vices of the young,” I said before looking sternly to Charles Brandon, he had the good grace to not mention Alice, or any of the others.
“Well, fetch him to me, anyhow,” I finally said. “And have Archbishop Cranmer in attendance as well. He should be prepared with blessings for the day of the birth of my son.”
Cromwell nodded and left to do my bidding.
“And here is the worst part,” Charles observed, as a terror-filled scream came from Anne’s bedchamber. “The waiting.”
“I know it has never done me any good,” I said, attempting to banish the memories I had of other days like this, days of waiting outside Catherine’s chambers only to be told that the baby had been stillborn or lost.
I waved to a page, gesturing for him to bring both Charles and I a glass of wine, another boy came to remove my boots. When he had removed the mud encrusted shoes, I placed my feet up on a small footstool and accepted the glass of wine. In the background, Anne screamed again.
“Have you given any thought to a name for the Prince of Wales?” Charles asked.
“I had thought to name him Henry, for my father and I,” I responded, “But that name has many memories.”
Charles nodded, not needing to be reminded of Catherine and I’s one son who had been named Henry, born only a few years into my reign. He had not lived to see two months. Three years later another Henry had been born and quickly buried. I now shuddered at the use of that name.
“It is the Feast of St. John,” he said. I bit out a short piece of laughter.
“There will be no more King Johns,” I answered. “And you can well forget the name Richard as well.”
Charles nodded, but there was a small smile on his face as he did so.
“Perhaps
Edward then,” he said, “It is the name of your grandfather and it is associated with a strong and peaceful king.”
I nodded, taking his suggestion in but not commenting. I sank deeply into my chair as another bloodcurdling scream came from Anne’s chambers.
“You, of course, could name him Charles,” Charles said, shooting me with a winning smile.
“Yes, but what good would that do me?” I asked, returning his smile.
“Oh, to be named after the greatest duke in England!” Charles said, opening his arms up. “One with great military glory and a great expansion of wealth. The most handsome courtier to be found and one who excels with women.”
“So you mean for me to name him Thomas, after his uncle the Duke of Norfolk then?” I asked. I stroked my beard up to my face to hide my grin as Charles’ hands came down across the arms of the chair in time with another of Anne’s screams.
“Not at all, Your Majesty,” he shot back.
“I do not think Thomas would be a strong enough name,” I conceded.
“Agreed,” Charles said, sulking. He downed the rest of his wine and motioned for the page to refill both of our glasses.
“Sir George Boleyn, Lord Ro—“
The herald paused while another howl came from Anne.
“Lord Rochford!”
George entered the chamber, looking as if he owned the place, as he always did. He fell down to one knee by my chair in the same spot Cromwell had and lowered his cap off of his head.
“How might I be of service to Your Majesty?”
“By telling me if you are still drunk or merely feeling ill from the night before.”
George’s head rose and he smiled at me.
“I am pleased to report neither, Your Majesty,” he answered. I gestured for him to pull a small stool up to join us. He waited for the page to bring one forth and, as he did so, Anne let out another scream.
“Is there not another place Your Majesty wishes to be?” he asked, a look of horror on his face as he looked to his sister’s chambers.
“No,” I answered. “This is the place where I will know if your sister has given birth to my son. This is where I need to be.”
Anne the Saint Page 3