His mouth shut tight as a clam. He looked as tho he’d swallowed some bitter potion. In the hearth a hot coal snapped and in that sound, that moment, I knew my father’s mind.
“I’ll be above you, will I not? I’ll be your Queen. You will have to bend your knee to your youngest daughter. It galls you, does it not?”
“Beyond measure,” he whispered fiercely.
“This was your arrangement, Father, and now you do not like the price.”
“Do you deny your own ambition?”
“Yes, I do!” I cried. “When I was just a girl come home from France I had no ambition save one — to marry a sweet boy for love. Then you and Cardinal Wolsey took the gentle flowing stream that was my life and dammed it, blocked and changed its natural course, so when undammed by Henry’s most persistent love for me, it became a flood, a raging torrent with a new and treacherous course — its own. A course that drowned Wolsey and now threatens swamping you as well.”
I saw his eyes cold and steely hard. “Hear me, Anne. You play a game more dangerous than you care to know. You toy with Kings and Bishops, even Rome. You make fools of men. And other men will die in your name. You will come to no good end, I fear, and you will bring this family down as well.”
He took his leave abruptly, leaving his youngest daughter fraught as much with fear as with arrogant rage at her loveless Father.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
27 January 1533
Diary,
The quill trembles as I write, for I have wed the King of England. Six years have come and passed since this marriage was proposed. Six years! I wonder at all the mountains that were made to move for this rare occasion, tho ‘twas nothing like I had imagined my wedding would be, done in hurried secrecy in the wee morning hours as all slumbered unaware.
Secretary Cromwell, Henry and my self conceived the plan together whereby all witnesses — there were but a few — Father, Mother, George, Thomas Wyatt and his sister Margaret Lee — were roused from sleep and summoned by our secret messengers to quickly dress by torchlight. Using every quiet discretion they were bid to creep like thieves thro deserted palace halls to Long Chapel where Henry, Cromwell and myself were waiting. In hushed voices, shivering against the cold, we begged their patience and good graces, telling them nothing of our plan. ‘Twas not till Thomas Cranmer arrived looking most somber and official that they knew the purpose of this gathering. He bade them all come close to witness a solemn marriage of the King and Anne Boleyn.
‘Twas a brief exchange of simple vows. The sound of our voices echoed in the empty chapel. I heard my Mother weeping. I dared not meet my Father’s eyes. Henry was in bad humor, stiff with fear and I think anger that our wedding lacked a proper celebration, but was instead this poor and fugitive ritual. As Henry placed the ring upon my finger, the chapel door creaked loudly. ‘Twas only a draft that moved the door but the King’s eyes darted like a hunted beast and he cursed softly. I wished to soothe him so I took his rigid hand and placed it on my belly.
“No need to worry now, my love. ‘Tis done,” said I.
Cromwell came forward with his congratulations, then demanded we give up our rings to him for safe keeping. Till Clement’s bulls arrive and Cranmer’s consecration, this union must stand secret. Then one by one we left the chapel, going our separate ways. I hurried to my apartments. The passages were dark and bitter cold, but I was warm and not alone. I felt the babe that slept within my belly, part of me. I wondered, Can he dream? Does he share my dreams or I his? When my fool makes me laugh, does he feel the warmth and goodness of that laughter?
I regained my rooms and crept past my still slumbering ladies to my cold and lonely bed, and slept the first time a married woman.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
24 May 1533
Diary,
This night I bide happily confined within the London Tower walls as all Queens and Kings have done before their Coronation. ‘Tis true that Henry’s love and my own persistence made this day possible, but Thomas Cromwell’s great scheme must, too, be given credence. Its final machinations I will now relate as History, for this marriage of a man and of a woman does now begin to grow as one more branch of England’s ancient tree of lineage, and must deserve such recognition.
My secret marriage stayed a secret till the bulls from Rome arrived and Thomas Cranmer saw his consecration as the highest Bishop in the land. But before he swore allegiance to the Church, and according to the King and Cromwell’s clever plan, this good man in front of several witnesses did take a most extraordinary oath, protesting that he’d always pay allegiance to his King and Country first. Then in Parliament a bill was quickly passed that gave supreme authority in all matters spiritual to this Archbishop of Canterbury, forbidding all appeals to Rome. My brother George was sent abroad to give the French King news of our marriage. Francis relayed his generous blessing and his sister Marguerite, who only months before had snubbed me in Calais, sent her kindest greetings to us both. All was ready then.
Henry made announcement of our wedding to the Parliament, and word was sent by royal envoy to Katherine. She remained, as always, stubborn and unyielding. “I am still the Queen,” she told the Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk, “and shall be until my death.” Most recently, I’m told, she had new liveries for her servants made embroidered with Henry’s H and her K entwined. I feel nothing for the woman, Diary, not sadness, not anger, not pity. Just the wish that with some magick spell like Merlin’s, she might simply disappear. Truly her presence here in Court grows dimmer by the day, the voices of her faithful, while persistent, are little more than sullen whispers now. Still she irks me.
But I digress. The final matter of Katherine and Henry’s divorce was brought forward just six days ago in the priory of Dunstable. Archbishop Cranmer there and then, according to his new authority, judged the marriage invalid, giving both parties freedom again to marry. And just one night ago, that same Bishop in a high gallery in Lambeth Manor, gave further judgement that my marriage to Henry was most lawful. And all was ready for my Coronation.
The first day of it dawned blue and perfect. All superstitious rumors boding ill of this occasion — a fish ninety feet long found beached on a northern coast, or of a great comet with a tail like a hoary old mans beard — I ignored. I woke in Greenwich Castle to sounds of distant cannon fire. My ladies pulled me from bed to dress me in a gown of cloth of gold with pearl encrusted sleeves and bodice, and one extra panel o’er my swollen belly. My hair was brushed slow and long and left unbound except a thick diamond circlet from which a gold and gossamer train there fell.
Margaret Mortimer was looking out the window at the river and cried, “Look, ‘tis a great red dragon spewing fire from its mouth!” And in deed it was, come floating on a barge attended by several terrible monsters and wild men casting fire and making a great racket. This splendid barge led a small armada — several hundred crafts all bright with colorful flags, tinkling bells and music down the Thames to fetch my self. And so amidst this floating spectacle was I was borne upriver to London Tower, whose mighty guns were set thundering to greet me.
A crowd had gathered at the somber stone fortress’ water steps and when, escorted thro the postern gate I saw as people parted, a lovely sight that was my husband Henry smiling, arms outstretched receiving me. Locked in his warm gaze I closed the distance tween us. They were sweet steps to be sure, but sweeter still was when I came within his reach and he laid both hands on his son inside my belly and kissed me reverently. That public display of his love did more for my heart than I can say.
Then old Lord Kingston, keeper of the Tower, strode cross the green courtyard and with Henry escorted me to the Queen’s apartments, all restored and new for this occasion. I could not discern whether Kingston’s sour face resulted from the pain of his poor crippled body or his well known love for Katherine, and this wrenching task he must endure as my host. But he has so far proven gracious, and no thing mars thi
s pleasant confinement three days after which I shall be reborn a royal person.
Yours faithfully,
Anne
30 May 1533
Diary,
Is it true? Dare I write the words? I am crowned Queen of England. Queen Anne. Anne the Queen. Anna Regina. The words placed together do seem right and fair. My heart now beats a normal rhythm, but in those hours of pageantry and celebration I feared several times that it might burst from equal parts of joy and terror.
Saturday morn saw me conveyed thro crowded London streets hung with all manner of silks and velvets, bright colored banners flapping in the breeze, and fountains gushing forth with wine. Gentlefolk hung from their open windows and commoners, constables, crafts and aldermen were there to see the dazzling procession. There were blue and yellow velvet clad Frenchmen riding splendid palfreys, great Ladies in crimson chariots garbed in crimson, Lord Chancellor of England, London’s Mayor all dressed in high ceremonial. With my belly proudly swollen for them all to see, I sat most regal in white tissue trimmed with ermine borne upon an open litter, under canopy of gold cloth held aloft by four knights marching beside me. Finally thirty divers gentleladies and the King’s own guard came bringing up the rear.
‘Twas a marvellous sight, tho to be honest few who watched cried out “God Save the Queen” or even lifted off their caps to me. My fool teased them crying, “I think you all have scurvy heads and dare not uncover!” and only just a few then obliged. But this was no surprise to me. I know the people bear me little love. More probably they looked to see my sixth finger as I waved to them, or the wen upon my neck they think is some witch’s mark.
But ‘twas not till the following day that I was taken into Westminster Abbey for my Coronation. This moment, most solemn and triumphant, saw the haughty Duchess of Norfolk carrying my train, the Duke of Suffolk who had tried with all his might to see this day would never come, carrying my crown before me to the altar where stood Archbishop Cranmer. There I knelt and lay prostrate on the flagstones before I rose for my anointing. Henry, God bless his soul, stood to one side in shadows that he could not be seen but by my self, and sent me looks of encouragement to shine alone. I heard little of Cranmer’s Latin blessings, ancient rituals of coronation, but felt the sweet weight of St. Edward’s Crown upon my bare head, the chilly golden sceptre in my right hand, the warm ivory rod of royalty in my left. Thus crowned I walked the few steps to my gilded velvet throne alone, turned and sat.
I looked out upon that sea of faces who were now my subjects and in that first moment as Queen, felt an awful fear. I wished to smile but I felt my features set hard and rigid as a statue of ice, the sceptre and rod too heavy, and I imagined they might slip from my shaking hands and clatter to the floor. Then all those sour faces would begin to laugh at me, “Anne the im-poster Queen — a common girl, a whore who tries to make her bastard our King.” But then — and this moment will remain with me forever — I felt the blessed child kick within my womb as if to say, “Mother, have no fear for I am here with you.” That sign from within, like a dazzling summer sun, gave off such a fine heat that my rigid features melted and I smiled. I knew it was a smile so radiant and full of love it gave illumination to that gloom filled Abbey and those angry faces, and shone out the painted windows to all of London proclaiming my right to sit upon this throne.
Yours faithfully,
Queen Anne
THE CASTLE WAS SO QUIET that as Elizabeth closed the diary in her lap, she could hear the sound of blood pounding in her own ears. A small smile came to the young queen as she thought, I was with my mother at her coronation. Indeed, a kick from her own tiny unborn foot had given Anne the courage to face the world as queen. Yes, she realized quite suddenly, her mother had been courageous. Had stood fast. This was where Elizabeth had gotten her courage, and not, as she’d always believed, from her father. From earliest childhood Elizabeth had been told her mother was a traitor, and that all traitors were cowards. The pain of this knowledge and of Anne’s reputation as adulteress and whore had shaken the child’s delicate soul and caused the litde princess to cease thinking about her mother altogether, and speak her name never. But now Elizabeth could see that Anne had done something wonderful. Something miraculous. She had prevailed against the impossible. She had held off the fervent advances of the King of England for six years in order to wear the crown and ensure her child’s legitimacy.
Elizabeth had been reading the diary in stolen moments for months now and its words and history had moved her, educated her, sometimes angered her. Here within these last passages _ were memorialized her mother’s painful making from commoner to queen, the ceremony that seemed more a funeral than a pageant, and the hatred of the people, her subjects, when at last she wore the crown. And these words thrust Elizabeth into memories of her own coronation.
Becoming Queen of England, even born a king’s daughter, had been an uphill battle. As a little girl she lived always in the shadow of Edward the heir apparent with no champion. Her father, though kindly, had little time for the high-spirited red-haired child who was no doubt a bitter reminder of his most passionate and now lost love. Even though Elizabeth had spent her childhood far away from court — out of her father’s sight and mind — when Great Harry had died, it was for her as if the sun had set and never risen again. Her friend and brother Edward’s brief and turbulent reign, the grasping men who sought to control him, all were dead and gone in the blink of an eye.
And then there had been Mary. Next in line of succession, she had grabbed the throne with the talons of a hungry hawk. Her early childhood as Henry and Katherine’s only heir had been sweet and mild. But Anne Boleyn had come into their lives and poisoned it all. The cold dance of Mary’s bitterness and hatred revolved around Elizabeth’s mother and, to a slighter degree, the little half sister herself.
In fact Mary had shown remarkable restraint toward Elizabeth during her own brief reign. Plots were ever afoot to rid the country of the Catholic queen and raise to the throne the popular princess who looked so startlingly like the young Harry, and all of Mary’s advisors had urged her to eliminate the “little whore,” the Protestant heretic and possible usurper of her crown.
Elizabeth stood from her chair and felt weariness drag down her fragile shoulders under the heavy ermine wrap. She blew out the candles one by one and climbed into her vast canopied bed. The hot bricks Kat had placed beneath the covers had long ago gone cold and she curled into a tight ball for warmth. But sleep evaded her as memories of the tortuous road to her own coronation swam before her eyes like a dreamy theatrical play with herself and her family the players.
The year that Mary became pregnant by her beloved Philip had been for Elizabeth one of the lowest times of her life. With a legitimate heir to the throne about to be born all hopes that she would ever be queen were dashed like a gull’s body on a rocky shoreline. She’d been called from her long exile to attend the Queen during her lying in at Greenwich. She knew her presence would give Mary and her councillors much perverse joy. They would gloat watching Elizabeth’s claim to the crown deflating as the Queen’s belly grew rounder by the day.
One might have thought that Mary’s most blessed and fecund days would soften the monarch’s vicious treatment of Protestant heretics, but this had not been the case. From her lying-in chamber the Queen, in a murderous frenzy, ordered the burnings increased, as if she required every infidel in England eradicated before her child was brought into the world.
During that confinement Philip had taken a keen interest in his twenty-one-year-old sister-in-law. They had spent many hours together discussing marriage prospects for Elizabeth, all of which would have added to his already substantial power in Europe, and all of which Elizabeth charmingly but emphatically rejected. She remembered finding the Spanish King broodingly attractive, somewhat shorter than herself and always rather unwell, suffering from a persistent and painful stomach disorder. But he’d taken an obvious delight in this robust girl whose wit and scholar
ship contrasted with his older wife’s dour piousness. Elizabeth guessed that Philip’s interest in her was at least partly practical. Mary could easily die in childbirth, and if he wanted to keep control of England, he would certainly seek to marry his wife’s sister. But Elizabeth also thought, remembering those days as they waited for Mary to deliver the son the midwives had promised, that Philip had more than a practical interest in her. She was very sure he had fallen in love with her and would have preferred sharing England’s throne with herself.
But Mary’s child would not be born. The long awaited date arrived and passed with no sign of the Queen’s labor. Mary sat for hour upon miserable hour amongst cushions on the floor watching in sadness and horror as her belly began to grow smaller and flatter. And as it deflated, Elizabeth’s power and importance began to grow in inverse proportion. It was clear that Mary had suffered a false pregnancy and that, indeed, the aging queen might be barren after all. Mortified at her failure, Mary had risen from her lying-in chamber and announced her court would be moving to the palace at Oat-lands. Elizabeth had been summarily dismissed and sent back into exile.
On their separate journeys Mary and Elizabeth had ridden out among the people and discovered that Mary’s hold on her subjects had faltered. No one under thirty was a Catholic anymore, and the Queen’s murderous treatment of the heretics had angered the populace. The disappointing false pregnancy was the final blow which, like an executioner’s axe, had finally severed Mary from the hearts of the English. The gaudy procession to Oatlands, Elizabeth was told, had found along the road many somber faces and forced shouts of “God save the Queen.” But Elizabeth’s modest caravan back to Hatfield, where country folk had lined the rutted roads to warmly greet her, had shocked the Princess with the profound truth that the common people of England loved her deeply, saw in her the female embodiment of their beloved Henry VIII, and believed her to be their next queen.
The Secret Diary of Anne Boleyn Page 20