by Alison Weir
The women nervously nodded assent.
“I will leave you to rest,” Henry said to Anne. “See to the Queen, ladies.”
Anne lay there weeping silently. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. What of her dreams of power and of the reign of virtuous women? It was all an illusion, dependent on the will of men. Because, when it came down to it, power depended only on a woman’s body not letting her down.
—
She mended quickly, and by the end of July she was ready to accompany Henry on his annual summer hunting progress. But her spirit was crushed, for he had been cold to her since she had lost their son. It was cruel of him, for she was grieving too, for her baby, for herself, and what this tragedy might mean for her.
If she had been depressed before the birth, she was in despair now. It was hard to rise above it and be the sophisticated, witty woman with whom Henry had fallen in love. And yet she must win him again. He too had suffered a bitter disappointment, but underneath the distant exterior, his heart still beat with love for her—she must believe it.
She could not find in herself much appetite for lovemaking, but Henry returned to her bed, almost with an air of doing what he had to do. She submitted willingly, knowing that conceiving another son was the only way to keep him hers. She did not deceive herself: it was a joyless experience.
And soon she found out why. Apparently it was no secret that he was betraying her—with her own maid of honor, too! Joan Ashley was seventeen, a pretty girl whom Anne had thought shy, but a more apt word would be sly. With her own credit with the King lower than it had ever been, there was no shortage of people to drop hints. She had even come across Jane Rochford gossiping about the affair, and been met with an embarrassed silence. It seemed it had been going on for some time.
Rage consumed her. When Henry next came to dine, she dismissed the servants and stood with her back to the door.
“Why are you wasting your seed on that worthless little cow Joan Ashley?” she challenged him. “You’re my husband and you’re old enough to be her grandfather!”
“You forget yourself, Anne,” Henry barked, his voice icy. “I am your King, and you have good reason to be content with what I have done for you—which I would not do now if I were to begin again.”
“That’s rich! You’re the one who commits adultery, yet you have the gall to censure me!”
“Stand aside!” Henry commanded, red with anger. “I’m dining elsewhere, where I’m sure of a welcome.”
“Go to your whore, then!” she hissed, and let him push past her. When he had gone, she collapsed, whimpering, to the floor. How had it all gone so wrong? Why had God withheld the blessing of a son? And where was the adoring servant who had so passionately courted her? How had he turned into this cruel and thoughtless man?
For three days she did not see Henry. She longed for someone to confide in, someone she could trust. George was at Dover, presiding over the warden’s court, and Mary was still at Hever. She should be back any day now. She was not George, but she was loyal at heart.
That evening, there was to be a feast in the presence chamber in honor of some visiting envoys from France. Anne took her place beside Henry, who inclined his head but would not look at her. She was aware of his stern profile, mostly turned away from her toward her father and his other guests. His displeasure with her was plain for all to see. Father was frowning. He knew about the tragedy that had befallen her.
Afterward there was dancing, and Henry rose, bowed, and led her out to the floor. She did her best to dance alluringly and gracefully, knowing that all eyes were on her, but to little effect, because afterward Henry escorted her back to her seat and took himself off to partner Joan Ashley. Watching the silly bitch with her triumphant simper, Anne trembled with anger. People were staring at her, some with pity, some smugly. She would endure it no more, she decided. When the dance was over and everyone milling around, she would slip away.
And then she saw her sister enter the hall: Mary, with a ripe swell to her belly, blooming with fruitfulness, drawing all eyes. Mary, proclaiming her condition for all the world to see, and the courtiers, even the King, staring in shock or glee…
Anne rose at once and went to greet her sister, putting on a smiling face, then she curtseyed to the King and hustled Mary away as quickly as she could. Hot on their heels came Father with a face like vengeance. He followed them into Anne’s apartments and, before she could speak, rounded on Mary.
“Have you been whoring again, daughter?
Mary faced up to him. “No! I am married.”
“Married?” he repeated. “Without my permission?”
“Or mine!” Anne chimed in. “I am your Queen! Who is he?”
“William Stafford,” Mary said with a defiant flourish. “I met him in Calais and again at your coronation. He has been visiting me at Hever.”
“He’s been doing more than that!” Father bellowed.
“Forgive me,” Mary pleaded, “but we love each other.”
“Stafford of the Calais garrison?” Father thundered, his pug face puce. “A man of little status and no fortune! You could at least have contrived to marry to our family’s advantage.”
“He is a dozen years younger than you,” Anne added, disgusted.
“William loves me! He was eager to marry me.” Mary was prouder than Anne had ever seen her.
“Love, bah!” Father spluttered. “Marrying for love offends God, good order, and all. It’s wayward and foolish. It’s bad enough neglecting to ask our permission, but you had not the courtesy to ask the King! What of your mother? Did you have the grace to inform her?”
Mary shook her head. The bravado had vanished. “We paid a clerk in Tonbridge to wed us. Mother was so angry when we told her. She’s written to you. That’s why we had to come here.” She was weeping now.
Father was implacable. “You just went ahead regardless of us, and the King’s likely displeasure. You’re the Queen’s own sister! Did it never occur to you that the scandal this marriage will cause will do nothing for her reputation?”
“You did not think of me,” Anne said, near to tears herself. “A scandal is the last thing I need at this time.”
There was the sound of footsteps outside. The door flew open and the King was announced. Henry strode in, his face dark with fury.
“Mistress Carey, the whole court is talking about you,” he snapped. “A fine show you put on for my guests.”
Mary curtseyed, shaking, tears running down her cheeks.
“She has secretly married William Stafford of the Calais garrison,” Anne said.
“Really?” Henry replied. “I’m surprised that one of your blood has married so cheaply. And to someone whose name is tainted by treason. I have not forgotten that this Stafford’s kinsman Buckingham lost his head for plotting my ruin, or that the Staffords have supported the Princess Dowager.”
“Sir, William is loyal, and he is your Grace’s loving cousin,” Mary said, finding her voice. “He is a good man and he loves me.”
“Be that as it may, you should have asked permission before marrying him. You have scanted your respect and the obedience you owe to my lord your father here, and to your Queen. They have every reason to be angered by this misalliance.”
“Sir,” Mary pleaded, “all the world set so little store by me. I was in bondage. My family are ashamed of me. But Master Stafford was kind, kinder than anyone has ever been—and kindness means more than lineage or standing.”
How true that was, Anne realized jealously. It was dawning on her how favorably Mary’s situation compared with her own. Mary had a husband who adored her and was kind to her, whereas Henry was unfaithful and could be cruel; Mary had hopes of a child, when Anne’s had just been brutally dashed. Through her folly, Mary had landed the world, while she herself, who had longed and schemed and prayed for years, had yet to experience true love and the security of holding a son in her arms. Her anger burned against her sister.
“You never
appreciated me,” Mary accused her. “You always had to be the successful one, whereas I had compromised my reputation and stained the family honor, even though it was not my fault.”
Anne was aware of Henry stirring uncomfortably beside her. Serves him right! she thought. Let him squirm!
“You would do well not to speak thus to your sister,” Henry warned Mary. “She is not at fault. What matters is this misalliance you have made. Was this child conceived in wedlock?”
Mary blushed. “No, sir.”
“Then you’ll get not a penny from me,” Father snorted. “And I’m sure His Grace will agree that I’m justified in stopping your allowance.”
“It is your husband’s duty to support you now,” Henry agreed.
“And I don’t want you under my roof!” Father barked.
“But where shall we go?” Mary wailed.
“That’s no concern of mine,” he replied.
“I don’t want you at court,” Anne said. Scandal aside, she did not need a constant reminder of what she herself lacked. Seeing Mary with the doting Stafford would be more than she could bear. She turned to Henry. “They deserve banishment for their offense, sir.”
Henry nodded. “I agree. Mistress Stafford, you have brought this upon yourself through your own foolishness. You will leave court and not return until summoned.”
“No! Please!” Mary cried, but Henry had turned to leave, and Anne followed after him.
“See that she goes tonight, Father,” she said before the door closed behind her.
—
The autumn leaves were thick on the ground when news came from Rome that Pope Clement had died.
“The great devil is dead!” Cromwell observed, breaking it to Anne. “They’ve elected a successor, Paul III. Already he has made it clear that he will not countenance what he likes to call the King’s disobedience. He has threatened to put into effect a sentence of excommunication that Clement drew up but never published. His Grace, of course, intends to ignore this threat, but we must be wary. If the Bishop of Rome decides to publish the sentence and incites the Emperor to war, the King, as an excommunicate, would stand alone, and could not expect aid from other Christian nations.”
“Do you think the Bishop of Rome will carry out his threat?” Anne asked, envisaging Katherine and Mary being borne back to Whitehall in triumph, and herself…Oh, God, what would they do to her?
“We must not be complacent,” Cromwell said, “but I think it may just be political bluster.”
—
Although Henry had supported Anne in her stand against her sister, and was gradually thawing toward her, gossip informed her that he was still dallying with Joan Ashley. It ate at her. In desperation, she determined to put an end to the affair.
Jane Rochford had taken pleasure in gossiping about it, so Jane could compensate for that by helping her. Anne had never liked her sister-in-law, and the antipathy was mutual, but that did not matter. Jane would pay for her gloating.
“I want to get rid of Joan Ashley,” Anne told her. “I need a pretext to send her away. Maybe we could contrive an urgent summons home?”
Jane’s wide eyes gleamed. Anne suspected that, lacking excitement in her own life, she enjoyed it vicariously at one remove, hence her willingness to be involved in this intrigue.
“Far better if she merited dismissal,” Jane said.
“She certainly does,” Anne agreed. “If it could be put about that she is making herself available to all and sundry, then I would have every justification—and the King would be angry with her for sharing her favors. He will brook no rival. Jane, you know all the latest gossip. Who better to spread the word?”
—
Within days, the entire court was whispering about the King’s mistress, and how strange it was that he was paying his addresses to one who was so promiscuous. Anne smiled inwardly. Revenge was sweet! She would give it a day or so, and then she would send the girl packing.
But that very afternoon, Jane Rochford came to her in tears of rage. “I have been banished from the court!” she cried. “I am to leave at once, and it’s all your fault!”
“On what grounds are you banished?” Anne demanded to know.
“For spreading gossip! I’ve been before Master Secretary. He told me that several people had testified that I had made it all up so that you could get rid of Joan Ashley. I think I’ve been watched. I wish I had never helped you in your foolhardy scheme!” And, omitting her curtsey, she flounced off to the lodging she shared with George.
Good riddance, Anne thought. But she was disturbed to think that Jane thought she had been watched, because if she had been, then Anne herself might be under surveillance too. Jane was right. She had indeed been foolhardy.
“I’m sorry,” she hastened to say, when George came to her chamber and told her that Jane had gone home to Grimston.
“I’m not!” he grimaced. “I’m relieved to see the back of her. She makes my life a misery with her constant barbs. I wish I’d never set eyes on her.” His steely expression softened. “I’m more concerned about you, sister. How has the King taken this?”
“I don’t know,” Anne said, chilled at the thought of Henry’s reaction. “I haven’t seen him.”
“When you do, show yourself loving but remorseful. Say you acted only out of despair at the thought of losing him.”
“I will do that,” she agreed, quailing at the thought.
Henry did not come to upbraid or question her, but his displeasure was soon made manifest.
She went to visit Elizabeth at Richmond, suffering a guilty conscience, as she had not seen her daughter on her first birthday. With her went Uncle Norfolk and the Duke of Suffolk and a train of lords and ladies. She spent some time playing with the child, who was quite a babbler and full of curiosity, toddling around in her velvet skirts and beribboned bonnet, and pouncing on a long-suffering Little Pourquoi as Lady Bryan and her nursemaids stood by, ready to catch her if she fell. She regarded Anne with curiosity, reaching a pudgy hand to her face and pinching it.
“Pretty lady,” she said.
The two dukes, having bestowed the requisite praise on the Princess, were getting fidgety.
“I will not be long,” Anne said. “The nights are drawing in now. We will leave by four o’clock.”
Norfolk then shocked her. “Your Grace, the King has ordered us to visit the Lady Mary while we are here, and convey his greetings,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
“You will not go!” Anne flared, unable to believe that Henry had done this.
“It is His Grace’s command,” Suffolk told her. “We dare not disobey.” And with that they walked out, the other lords and even some of her ladies following in their wake.
Anne stood up and shooed Elizabeth toward Lady Bryan. She was shaking, shocked by the realization that her power was waning and that everyone knew it. Could it be that Henry, even now, was contemplating restoring Mary to the succession? If so, where would that leave her and Elizabeth?
She must do something. If only she were pregnant! But Henry had not visited her bed since she had upbraided him about Joan Ashley—and that little bitch was still at court.
As she was rowed back to Whitehall, she sat in her cabin with the curtains drawn. She would not speak to those who had betrayed her. When she reached the sanctuary of her chamber, she lay on her bed and cried hot tears of despair.
Feeling a little restored, she decided it would be politic to do as Henry wanted. If she too showed herself friendly to Mary, it might go a long way toward restoring her to his good graces. And so she wrote warmly to her stepdaughter, bidding her be of good cheer.
There was no reply. But she suspected that Henry had heard about her letter, for he began visiting her again at night. He was still distant, and stayed long enough only to do what was necessary to impregnate her, but it was enough for now. Once she was with child, he would come back to her, as he used to be, and Joan Ashley could go hang herself! And when
she herself had a son, none would dare touch her.
—
The Admiral of France was in England on a state visit, his purpose being to promote friendly relations between the two kingdoms. Henry arranged a great banquet in his honor and invited many beautiful ladies to court to take part in the festivities. Anne was to preside, and took great care in choosing her attire. A glance in her mirror told her that she was looking strained, miserable, and every one of her thirty-three years. She pinched her cheeks and compressed her lips to redden them. It was essential that she look her best beside the other ladies. She wanted to impress the Admiral, who was a great friend of the French King and very powerful in France. She needed to convince him that there was no better bride for King François’s youngest son, Charles, Duke of Angoulême, than the Princess Elizabeth. François’s agreement to their marriage would amount to a public recognition of her as queen, and Elizabeth as Henry’s legitimate heir. And once Elizabeth was betrothed to his son, he would surely prove as powerful a friend to Anne as the Emperor had been to Katherine.
Anne was making this approach with Henry’s blessing. He himself had suggested the match some time before. He had not said as much, but she’d guessed that he had been thinking forward to a time when Elizabeth was Queen of England. Marrying a younger son, who had no obligations to his country and could live here, would prevent England from becoming a mere dependent of France.
A thousand candles lit the great hall, the plate on the buffets glinting in their glow. During the banquet, the Admiral, a cultivated and rather handsome aristocrat, listened courteously to Anne’s arguments. He gave nothing away. Seeing there was no more to be gained from persuasion, she asked if he had ever met Leonardo da Vinci, and he told her he had, and that the old man’s beloved portrait of Monna Lisa was now hanging in King François’s bathroom.
She was reminiscing about her time at the French court and watching the dancing when Henry joined them.
“My lord Admiral, I am just going to fetch your secretary and present him to the Queen,” he said. Anne watched him go, weaving between the swirling couples, and saw him suddenly stop and bow before a lady. It was Joan Ashley! Seconds later, they were dancing together. The shock made her laugh out loud.
