by Alison Weir
It was late when the banquet ended and the order was given for the guests to stand until Anne had washed her hands and descended to the floor of the hall. Here she was served wine and comfits, and when she had nibbled at a couple, she beckoned the Lord Mayor over and gave him a gold cup, thanking him and the citizens once more for their efforts on her behalf. The barons of the Cinque Ports were waiting with their canopy to escort her to the door of her chamber, and thus she left the hall, tired but exhilarated. It had, she reflected, been the most extraordinary day of her life.
—
The festivities continued for some days more. There were dances, tournaments, hunts, and sports, all in her honor. Henry had made his pleasure clear, and his courtiers were outdoing each other to honor their new Queen. She suspected that it was not because they wanted to, but because they were aware of him watching like a hawk. But it was gratifying to have everyone striving to be as attentive as possible to her.
Henry had decided that his heir was to be born at Greenwich, his own birthplace, and presented Anne with one of the richest and most sumptuous beds she had ever seen for her confinement. It was French, ornately carved and gilded; years before, it had been part of the ransom for a royal duke, and it had been languishing in the Royal Wardrobe ever since. Surely it was the most wondrous bed any queen had ever owned, Anne thought, luxuriating in its splendor.
News of the death of her great critic, Mary Tudor, did not move her, but Henry was upset at losing his sister, and full of regret that she had died unreconciled to him.
As the summer continued, and Anne grew heavy with her precious burden, she stayed mostly in her apartments resting, or enjoying pastime in her chamber with her favored courtiers, who exerted themselves to entertain her with music, verse, cards, or dice, and flirted outrageously with her ladies.
“I feel sorry for Tom Wyatt and his fellow envoys, having to be overseas at this time,” Norris said, sitting down beside Anne and watching the amorous couples with amusement.
“If they thought that these ladies favored them, and hated parting with their faithful servants, they should see them now,” Anne laughed.
He turned to her and gave her that sweet smile she loved. “And how is your Grace? I trust that all is well with you.”
“I shall be glad to be delivered,” she said. “I am becoming very cumbersome! Soon I must think about taking to my chamber.”
“If there’s anything I can do to bring your Grace comfort, do not hesitate to command me,” Norris invited.
“That’s very kind. And how are you these days, Norris?”
He shrugged. “I do well enough. My work in the Privy Chamber keeps me busy.”
“You should marry again,” she teased.
“Alas, madam, my heart is given to a very special lady, whose name I may not say, for she is wed.” He looked meaningfully at her with eyes full of devotion.
Her heart stirred. How different her life would have been if she had given herself to this loyal, honorable, and gentle man. She could have loved him as she had never loved Henry. But she could not regret choosing the crown. It was enough to have Norris’s friendship and bask in the warmth of his kindness.
“You are wise, sir,” she told him, “for, being married, she must guard her reputation, whether she loves you or not. And some husbands can be very jealous.”
—
A deputation of lords of the Council had informed Katherine of Cranmer’s judgments.
“She refuses to recognize them,” Henry snarled, stalking up and down beside the bed where Anne was resting. “I told them to tell her that I cannot have two wives, or permit her to persist in calling herself queen. It was made clear to her that my marriage to you is irrevocable, and has the consent of Parliament, that nothing that she can do will annul it, and that she will only incur my displeasure and that of Almighty God if she persists in her obstinacy. And what did she do? She took the parchment laying out my terms for her submission, and wherever she found the name of Princess Dowager, she struck it out, insisting she is my true wife and Queen.”
“Will she never desist?” Anne cried. “She has lost you. What more do you have to do to convince her of it?”
“I’m sending her to Buckden, which is further north, with a reduced household. The tower there is fifty years old, and damp. That should make her see sense.”
“I hope so!” Anne said fervently. “You should ban all visitors.”
“I’ve already given the order. There will be no letters either. We don’t want Chapuys cooking up mischief with her.”
“Or the Princess,” Anne said. “I heard today that when Mary went abroad in the countryside recently, the people came hastening to greet her as if she were God Himself descended from Heaven. Henry, you should stop her from inciting demonstrations like that, and punish the demonstrators.”
“I don’t think Mary would have incited them,” Henry said. “They just turned up to see her.”
“Will you never see the truth?” Anne flung back. “She’s playing a clever game, building up sympathy for herself. Poor sweet little Princess, parted from her mother…Henry, she’s seventeen! I was parted from my mother at the age of twelve, and didn’t see her for six years. Mary should count herself lucky.”
Henry subsided. Where his daughter was concerned, he was weak, but Anne was determined that he take a firmer stand with her. Let Mary put another foot wrong, and there’d be a reckoning.
—
In July, the King took Anne to Hampton Court to rest in the final weeks of her pregnancy. They spent the balmy days taking slow strolls in the beautiful gardens, picnicking in the little banqueting houses that Henry had built in the grounds, reading companionably together in Anne’s privy chamber, and making merry at supper. He no longer came to her bed, for he did not wish to disturb her rest, and in truth, the size she was, she preferred to sleep alone. She felt well, and had never seen Henry so happy.
It was only in these last weeks of her pregnancy that she began to worry about the possibility of her baby being a girl. Henry had always referred to it as a son, and she too had come to think of it as a boy. But what if it wasn’t? Henry had done all that he had sworn to do: he had broken with Rome to marry her, and had her crowned with as much pomp as if she were a reigning monarch. It was now up to her to seal her part of the bargain by presenting him with the son that, at forty-two, he needed more desperately than ever, not only to ensure the succession, but also to justify the risks he had taken on her account. The blessing of a male heir would show the world that God smiled on their union, and would undoubtedly bring many waverers and dissidents over to their side—and it might silence, once and for all, that infuriating woman at Buckden!
So much hung on the sex of the child. That it might not be a son did not bear thinking about. And so she grew daily more anxious, when she should have been enjoying the calm euphoria of these last weeks before the birth.
The wretched Nun of Kent had chosen the day of Anne’s coronation to prophesy doom for the King and his new Queen. This time the authorities had pounced, and Elizabeth Barton had been brought before Cranmer to be examined.
“He should not have let her go with just a warning,” Anne complained. “She’s already ignored it.”
“Sweetheart, do not excite yourself,” Henry exhorted, all concern, as they sat down to cold chicken, a raised pie, salad, and a dish of cherries in the banqueting house that stood on the hillock overlooking the privy garden. “I had her re-arrested this morning, and Cranmer examined her again. She’s admitted that she never had a vision in her life.”
“What will you do with her?”
“Let her go. She’s been discredited, out of her own mouth.”
“That won’t deter her. Mad or not, she’s never held her peace before.”
“If she spouts more sedition, she will feel the full force of my displeasure,” Henry declared. “But let’s not speak of unpleasant things. You do not want to agitate the babe. I am of the belief that wha
t a woman thinks or feels can affect the child in her womb—it stands to reason.”
“I don’t know about that,” Anne smiled, “but this one leaps about as if it’s practicing for the joust! Feel!” She guided Henry’s hand to her belly.
“By God, here’s a future king to be proud of!” he chuckled. “Darling, I know I can’t be there with you when our son is born, but I want to be near at hand. I’m not going far on my hunting progress this year; I’m keeping near to London.”
“That is a great comfort to me,” Anne said, reaching across and squeezing his hand.
He smiled at her. “I’m ordering that prayers for your safe delivery be offered up in every church, and I will ask my loving subjects to pray to Jesus, if it be His will, to send us a prince. I’ve consulted the physicians, and they all assure me that the child will be male.”
How did they know? They had never examined her, merely inquired how she was feeling and exhorted her to take care of herself. Childbirth was women’s work! She had already engaged a midwife, who was even now in residence at court, guzzling rich food and idling away the days in luxury. But she had come highly recommended by Lady Worcester.
After they had finished their meal, Henry took Anne to see an astrologer he had summoned. She had heard of William Glover, for he was celebrated throughout the land for foretelling the future. He was not the first of the seers Henry had consulted; he was as anxious as she was about the baby’s sex. Of course, they had all assured him that it would be a boy, but the pronouncement of this Glover, with his great reputation, would carry special weight.
He was a raven-haired, thin-faced man with bushy brows, completely immersed in a world of his own. He showed them charts of celestial configurations, then looked into his glass and paused for a very long moment before turning to Anne.
“I see your Grace bearing a woman child and a prince of the land.”
She was shocked.
“Two children?” Henry barked. “A prince and princess?”
“No, your Grace. I see only one child.”
“How can a woman child be a prince?” Henry countered.
“My vision does not reveal that.”
“You’re a charlatan!” Henry accused him. “Everyone else says it will be a son!”
“Lord King, I know only what my glass tells me,” Glover insisted.
Henry dismissed him, glowering.
“Don’t let him upset you, darling,” he said to Anne, when the man had gone. “He’s a knave!”
“Indeed he must be,” she agreed, wanting to forget the episode. “Henry, I have been thinking about the Prince’s baptism. Are there special christening robes and bearing cloths in the Royal Wardrobe?”
“Maybe. Katherine used a very rich triumphal cloth she brought from Spain to wrap up our children for baptism.”
“Do you think she still has it?” It would be sweet revenge to wrap her son in that cloth.
“Probably,” said Henry.
“Will you ask her for it?”
He grinned wolfishly. “It will be my pleasure.”
—
Back came the prompt answer. It had not pleased God that Katherine should ever be so badly advised as to assist in a case as horrible as this.
“How dare she!” Anne raged.
“Darling, as she rightly says, the robe is her personal property. I don’t think I can press the point.” As usual, Henry was hopeless in the face of Katherine’s malice.
“But it’s a snub.”
To her astonishment, he rounded on her. “We should not have asked in the first place. Anne, I have more pressing matters to worry about. I’ve just heard that the Pope has annulled all Cranmer’s proceedings and declared our marriage null and void, making it appear to all Christendom that we are living in adultery. Worse still, he has threatened me with excommunication if I do not put you away by September.”
“You must ignore him!” Anne cried. “You don’t need him now!”
“I intend to ignore him!” Henry shouted. “God, who knows my righteous heart, always prospers my affairs.”
But she could see the fear that belied his bullish words. In the eyes of the faithful, he was a schismatic adulterer who might soon be cut off from God. And his enemies would be waiting to pounce…It was more imperative than ever that she bear him a son, to show that God smiled upon him.
—
“The King danced many times with Lady Carew last night,” Jane Rochford said.
“They are old friends,” Anne replied, handing the basket of silks across to Nan Gainsford. Gossip had it that Lady Carew had bedded with Henry before her marriage to Sir Nicholas Carew, but that was long ago, even before Bessie Blount’s time. Yet Jane was looking at Anne with a sly, gloating expression, as if to say, I know something you don’t.
“What is it you wish to tell me, Jane?” she asked briskly.
Jane seemed reluctant to speak, but Anne suspected that she was enjoying this. “I did not like to say anything—after all, it probably means nothing, but…well, with your Grace being with child…”
“What, then?” Anne demanded to know. The other ladies and maids were looking from one to the other.
“I saw him kiss her,” Jane said.
It was like a punch, winding her. “Kiss her? What, beyond what is courteous?”
“It looked more than courtesy to me,” Jane replied.
Anne searched the shocked faces around her. “Did any of you see this?”
Nan Saville looked guilty. “Yes, your Grace.”
“Just the once?”
“I saw him kiss her three times,” Jane said.
“Well, well,” Anne retorted, “probably it was just a courtly flirtation. Now, what design shall we embroider on this altar frontal?”
How she got through the afternoon and behaved as if all was normal she did not know, but by five o’clock she could stand it no longer and dismissed them all, saying she needed to rest. Then she sent for Norris, the person she trusted best. He, of all people, would know if Henry was being unfaithful.
“What can I do for your Grace?” he asked, standing before her, with Mary, for propriety’s sake, just out of earshot in the bedchamber beyond.
“Sir Henry, can I ask you something in the strictest confidence?” Anne asked, trying not to cry.
“Of course, madam.” His face was all concern.
“Is the King being unfaithful to me with Lady Carew?”
Norris looked embarrassed. He hesitated.
“Your face says it all,” she said, and then the tears did fall.
“Oh, my dear lady,” Norris said, and in an instant was on one knee before her, holding her hands. “I would not for the world cause you any distress.”
“But I must know!” she sobbed. “If my ladies are talking about it, the whole court will be. And he has never been unfaithful before. For eight years he has been true to me.”
Norris looked into her eyes. He was still holding her hands, and she would have given anything for him to take her in his arms and comfort her properly. Nothing else would make her feel better. It was her pride that was hurt, far more grievously than her heart, for it had never been truly Henry’s. But he adored her, surely: she was special, not like Katherine, whom he had deceived many times.
It was his deception, and his making her an object of ridicule before the whole court—especially her enemies, who would be laughing up their sleeves, or not so discreetly—that was unforgivable.
She resisted the impulse to melt into Norris’s strong arms and seek oblivion. She would not stoop to Henry’s level.
“Are they lovers?” she asked, disengaging her hands and finding her handkerchief.
“You are asking me to break my oath of service. I owe discretion to the King in all matters.”
“I must know!” Anne insisted. “Just indicate yes or no. The gossip will be rampant anyway, so I could have heard it anywhere. Has he slept with her?”
Norris’s nod was barely perceptible. H
is eyes were full of compassion.
“Thank you. Please go and ask the King if he will visit me when he is free. And Norris—no hint of this to him, please.”
—
Henry arrived within the hour, in a high good humor and with a bowl of choice apples for her.
She greeted him cordially, then sent her women into the next room. When the door had closed behind them, she turned on him.
“Is it true what my ladies are saying about you and Lady Carew?” she asked.
Henry’s good mood evaporated. His eyes narrowed.
“I danced with her, that’s all. What do you take me for?”
“You were seen kissing her!” she cried fiercely. “And the gossip I heard accuses you of more than that. Do you deny it?”
“I do deny it!” he flared, that menacing flush rising from his neck.
“Then you are lying,” she accused. “I have it on good authority that you have bedded with her. Some ladies cannot keep a still tongue.”
“You would believe gossip rather than the word of a king? By God, Anne, you try me!”
“I have good cause—admit it!” she shrieked, beside herself with fury, feeling the poor babe leap in distress in her womb. “You pride yourself on your honor, but what price honor when your rod governs your royal will?”
“Remember who I am!” Henry flung back. “When I think of what I have done for you—how I fought the whole world to have you, and honored you with my marriage. How I have showered you with gifts—look at that great bed I gave you. By God, Anne, you would not have it now, having used such words to me. You are my wife, and you must shut your eyes and endure as more worthy persons have done.”
“Then you admit it,” she hissed.
Henry’s face was like thunder, his voice icy. “Madam, you ought to remember that it is in my power to humble you again in a moment, more than I have raised you.”
He walked out, leaving her stunned. Never had he spoken to her like that. And to compare her unfavorably to Katherine! How could he? She collapsed in a storm of weeping, and her ladies came running. They made her rest, fearful for the babe. If only its father had been, she thought bitterly.
