by Alison Weir
“It was because of your unkindness!” she burst out. “You have no one to blame but yourself, for it was caused by my distress of mind over that wench Seymour.”
Henry stood up. “I will have no more boys by you,” he said icily.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
His look silenced her. “I see clearly that God does not mean to give me male children. I do not wish to discuss it now. I will speak to you when you are up.” And he left, glowering, looking very ill-done-by.
His words had struck fear into her, and it took all her courage to smile at her weeping ladies. “It is for the best,” she told them, “because I will be the sooner with child again, and the son I will bear shall not be doubtful like this one, which was conceived during the life of the Princess Dowager.” Nan Saville took her hand and squeezed it.
For two days she lay there brooding, wishing that Henry would come to her, terrified lest she had lost him for good. When she finally rose from her bed and looked in her mirror, she was appalled to see a thin, drawn, pinched old woman looking back at her. She was thirty-five, no longer the captivating young maiden who had ensnared a king—and never would be again.
Many times she repented of her hasty words of reproach. She was in great fear, for Henry might now consider her as barren of sons as Katherine had been. Was he even now looking for a pretext to have their marriage annulled and their daughter declared a bastard? She did not have Katherine’s powerful friends—she had not very many friends at all—so there would be few to champion her cause. Without Henry, she would be an object of derision, calumny, and hatred; some would want her blood.
—
Early in February, she was informed that the King had gone to London for the Shrovetide celebrations and to attend Parliament.
He left her behind. It proved that he was still angry with her. She wept when she remembered the time when he had been unwilling to leave her for an hour. Her only consolation—if it could be called that—was that he had been unable to take that bitch Seymour with him. With the Queen’s household remaining at Greenwich, he had been obliged, for propriety’s sake, to leave Jane there too. She was skulking about, keeping out of Anne’s way.
Anne’s only companions were her ladies, who could talk of nothing, it seemed, but Madge’s betrothal and forthcoming wedding. For Norris had succumbed to her blandishments and asked her to marry him. Their families approved, and Madge, who seemed to have forgotten her reservations, was luminous with happiness. Anne felt like screaming. Norris did not love Madge. He loved her. It was in his eyes every time he spoke to her. Jealousy was like a sharp knife piercing her vitals.
Every day she mourned her losses: her baby, Henry’s love, and Norris. Security and happiness had been almost within her grasp. Now she lived with fear and an overwhelming sense of failure.
Messengers bearing packages and letters kept arriving from York Place.
“They’re for Jane,” Madge whispered. Anne’s jealousy was a torment. She watched Jane continually, and lashed out at her for the slightest dereliction of duty—but it did not wipe the complacent smile off Jane’s face. One day the woman was brazen enough to wear a new jeweled locket. Guessing who had sent it, Anne confronted her.
“That’s a costly piece. Let me see it,” she demanded.
Jane stared at her mutinously, clearly unwilling, whereupon Anne lost her temper and ripped the locket from Jane’s neck with such force that the chain cut into her hand. With blood welling in drops from the wound, she pried the locket open with unsteady fingers, to find inside a miniature portrait of Henry. Tears blurred her eyes.
She thrust the locket back into Jane’s hands. “Take it, and him! You are welcome to him!”
—
The relief was indescribable when George arrived to tell her that Parliament had assigned her two royal manors.
“Then I am not entirely out of favor,” she said, trying to forget what George had done, and to remember that he was her brother, whom she loved.
“The King approved the grant. It seems that his anger is spent and that he is determined to continue in your marriage.”
“So Mistress Seymour is just another passing fancy. Thank God! She has caused me such grief, flaunting her presents from His Grace.”
“Anne, hearken to me.” George was regarding her with unusual compassion. “Take stock. I am shocked to see how you have grown so thin and sad. Eat for your health. Look to your hair and your dress. Put a brave smile on your face. You can fight back! None knows better how to. You won the King once; now win him back.”
“It’s not easy when he is in London and I’m here,” she said.
“I will persuade him to summon you,” George promised. “Leave it to me.”
—
Days later, the summons came. George had played his part, and now she must play hers. She had herself garbed in a sumptuous gown of black velvet with oversleeves of fur and a low neckline edged with black embroidery and pearls. Around her neck, to proclaim her pride in her queenship and her family, she hung a pendant in the shape of a B—one of several initial jewels she favored. She was still too slim, but the black gown flattered her. Her hair she left loose in token of her rank, threaded with jewels as she had used to wear it.
Henry received her courteously, looking her up and down with approval, yet failing to meet her eye.
“It is a joy to me to see your Grace again,” she said.
“I trust you are fully recovered.” Still his manner was distant.
“I am very well, sir.”
“Your brother told me that you were unhappy at Greenwich, and so I thought you would like to join me to celebrate the feast day of St. Matthias.”
“I shall be honored and delighted,” she told him. She was also delighted to find that Jane was nowhere to be seen on the feast day.
—
Henry was being kind to her. He came to her bed most nights, and she began to believe that all was not lost. It was clear from the petitions she received that others still believed she had influence with him. She took care to be charming to all.
Resolving to be a good mother, she sent for Elizabeth and spent lavishly on clothing for her, dressing the little girl up in caps of purple, white, and crimson satin, cauls of gold, ribbon for her plaits, and miniature court gowns of velvet and damask. She taught her how to manage a train. Watching her daughter toddling along, head held high, swaths of damask trailing behind her, Anne almost loved her.
The signs were that the Emperor was hoping for an alliance with Henry.
“And if he approaches me—so the terms be acceptable—I will be willing,” Henry told Anne. “I’ve heard from my agents in Rome that Pope Paul is ready to proclaim my excommunication. Charles’s friendship might prevent that. Not that I care a fig for what the Bishop of Rome does, but the rest of Christendom will. They may not deal with me honestly if I am cast out of the fold.”
But what of me? she wondered. The Emperor hates me. I am a stumbling block to this alliance. She did not say any of this; it was for Henry to deal with, or rather Cromwell. Instead, she asked how François would take it.
“Our relations have been unstable lately,” Henry said, “and I fear there is little hope of Elizabeth’s marriage being concluded. François is as slippery as an eel, and he’s ill of the pox and in a bad humor. All that fornication is catching up with him.” Henry’s lips were prim. You can’t talk! Anne thought. “He and Charles are at odds,” he added. “Soon they’ll be at war. Friendship with the Emperor offers us the greatest hope for the future security of this realm.”
Yes, she thought again, but what of my security?
—
“Sir Edward Seymour has been appointed to the Privy Chamber,” Father announced one evening when they were supping alone in his lodgings. “I warn you, Anne, the influence of these Seymours increases daily.”
Rage welled in her. “What can I do?” she stormed. “He flaunts her almost under my nose.”
Father snorted. “I sh
ouldn’t need to tell you what to do to win him back.”
“That’s unfair!” she snapped.
“You could bloody well cheer up.”
“You lose three sons in a row, see your husband chasing other women and sense your enemies ready to pounce—you’d be cheerful, I’m sure! But Father, I do try. And maybe God will give me a son now that my marriage is not in doubt. When that happens—”
“Anne, be realistic. Katherine lost five children. You’ve lost three. Is that telling you something?”
Her hand flew to her mouth as the possibility of Henry being in some way at fault dawned on her. “But if that’s true, what can I do?”
Father shrugged. “Nothing but pray. And be watchful. Those Seymour brothers are greedy, ruthless, and cunning, and they are in daily contact with the King. And there’s another thing you should know. Our friend Cromwell has willingly obliged your husband by vacating his chambers so that Sir Edward Seymour and his wife can lodge there. The King can access these chambers from his own apartments by certain galleries without being perceived. You can imagine what his purpose is.”
“You mean Cromwell is encouraging this infidelity?” That chilled her to the bone.
“He has been accommodating. What worries me more is that the wench and her family are insisting that His Grace pay his addresses to her only in the presence of her relatives. It’s supposed to be a discreet arrangement, but it’s being bruited about the court as if the town crier had announced it.”
“Dear God!” Anne whispered, sinking back in her chair. “If she’s playing that game, what end to it can there be but marriage? Unless he tires of her, which I pray he will. But this preservation of her virtue smacks to me of preparing her for queenship. I, of all people, know that! And if Cromwell has readily facilitated this, then he obviously takes it seriously. I have long suspected that he had become my enemy—now I know. Well, he shall hear about this from me!”
Angrily she summoned Cromwell to her closet. He bowed low before her.
“Your Grace. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Don’t cozen me, Master Secretary. I’ve just learned that you have readily given up your lodging to the Seymours, so that my husband can dally with his mistress.”
“Your Grace must not call her that,” Cromwell said. “Mistress Seymour is a most virtuous lady. Had she been otherwise, I would not have agreed to it.”
“Virtuous or not—and I beg leave to doubt—trying to steal her mistress’s husband is not edifying behavior.”
“No, madam, it is not.” He looked pointedly at her. By God, he went too far! “May I give you a word of advice?” he went on. “Do not meddle in state affairs. The King doesn’t like it.”
This was outrageous! “You mean, Master Secretary, that you don’t want me interfering with your plans for the monasteries. Now that Parliament has approved their closure, you will make the King rich and grateful. But he listens to me too—I am not so far out of favor as you might like—and I mean fiercely to oppose the wealth of these houses being sold off wholesale to buy support for the royal supremacy. I think the King would be shocked if he knew that, under the guise of the Gospel and religion, you are advancing your own interests.”
“Not so!” Cromwell protested. She could sense him becoming riled. It was satisfying to pierce that urbane facade.
“So you don’t plan to put everything up for sale? You don’t accept bribes to confer ecclesiastical property and benefices upon the enemies of true doctrine?”
“I am the King’s good servant,” he replied coldly.
“I think Sir Thomas More said much the same thing, and look what happened to him! I tell you, Master Secretary, other reformists support me. My almoner, John Skip, is one of them. We are determined to see a substantial portion of the confiscated riches used for educational and charitable purposes that can benefit everyone.”
“And you think the King will agree with you?” Cromwell smiled patronizingly, as if she were an ignorant fool. “The treasury is empty. He is a man who likes to live lavishly. I don’t see him turning down this unique opportunity to make himself rich.”
“The King is virtuous too,” she countered. “He loves learning. I know I can persuade him to listen to me—and you know it too.”
Cromwell continued to smile at her. “We shall see, madam,” he said.
“We shall!” The gauntlet had been flung down. “In the meantime, don’t encourage Mistress Seymour, or you will find yourself in the greatest trouble.” And with that she dismissed him.
—
When Henry came to supper with her the following evening, Anne brought up the subject of the monasteries. “Sir, I know you need money, but would it not be a worthy thing to divert some of their wealth to education and charity? I can think of so many deserving causes. Henry, you could become renowned for founding schools and supporting scholars. You could establish chairs at the universities, set up a fund for the poor who are in desperate need and will be more so when the monasteries are gone.”
Henry was looking at her with fresh admiration. “I like your ideas, Anne.”
“You would be remembered in centuries to come as the King who gave the gift of learning to his people along with the Bible in English. And that would be a greater achievement than any victory in battle.”
“By St. Mary, you speak truth,” he declared. “The religious houses have riches beyond imagining, so I am told, enough to do all these things and fill the treasury.”
“These causes would be more noble than selling off the land to buy the opinions of your lords.”
“I might have to offer some inducements, Anne, but you are right. Some of the money should be used for worthy causes.”
They spent a happy hour discussing those causes in detail, and it felt like old times. There was an intimacy in shared aims. Above all, he had heeded her. Her influence was still a force to be reckoned with. How she would love to see Cromwell’s face when Henry enthusiastically outlined his new schemes. He would know that she had bested him!
And she wasn’t finished with him yet. Like Queen Esther, she would rid the kingdom of corrupt ministers—and at the same time she would show Henry that she would not tolerate any infidelity. She was fighting back.
—
On Passion Sunday, she had her almoner preach a sermon in the Chapel Royal on the text “Which among you accuses me of sin?”
She sat next to Henry as Father Skip ascended the pulpit.
“A king needs to be wise and resist evil counselors who tempt him to ignoble actions,” he began. “A king’s counselor ought to take good heed of what advice he gives in altering ancient things.” He paused, glaring fiercely at the congregation below him, leaving them in no doubt as to whom he was referring. Anne glanced at Henry, who was looking pensive—exactly what she had hoped for. Cromwell was frowning.
“Look at the example of King Ahasuerus, who was moved by a wicked minister to destroy the Jews,” Skip continued. “That minister was Haman, who had tried to destroy Ahasuerus’s Queen, Esther. But after Esther exposed his evil plot and saved the Jews from persecution, Haman was justly hanged. And thus triumphed this good woman, whom King Ahasuerus loved very well, and put his trust in, because he knew she was ever his friend.”
Henry was nodding sagely. He knew the story well. He had commissioned those tapestries depicting it.
Skip now got to the pith of the tale. “Among his evil deeds, Haman had assured Ahasuerus that eliminating the Jews would result in ten thousand talents being appropriated for the royal treasury, and for the King’s personal gain.” Anne felt Henry stir beside her. “So, in our own day, we have cause to lament that the Crown, misled by evil counsel, wants the Church’s property, and will have it. We can only lament the decay of the universities and pray that the necessity for learning will not be overlooked.”
All eyes were now on Anne; Cromwell’s were full of menace—and, she was gratified to see, fear. He could be in no doubt now. She was setting hersel
f up in opposition to his policies. The swords had been unsheathed.
Now it was Henry’s turn to squirm. Skip was looking sternly on his flock. “But it is not only in fleecing the Church that corruption lies. Look at the example of Solomon, who lost his true nobility through his sensual and carnal appetite, and taking too many wives and concubines.”
Henry’s breathing quickened. He looked as mad as a bull about to charge. Only recently, his painter, Hans Holbein, had portrayed him as Solomon, the fount of all wisdom. It was as well that Skip had finished, and was exhorting the congregation to kneel in prayer. For all his fury, Henry had to obey.
After the service, he grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her into one of the holy-day closets behind the royal pew.
“Did you put him up to that?” he asked angrily. “Or did he take it upon himself to preach sedition and slander me, my councillors, and my whole Parliament?”
Before she could answer, Cromwell, forgetting his place, barged into the closet. He did not acknowledge Anne.
“Your Grace will surely not let that pass!” he hissed. Anne had never seen him so exercised.
“I intend to have my Council reprimand this priest, and warn him that he had best mind his tongue if he wishes to remain in the Queen’s service.”
“But your Grace agrees with him,” Anne said. “Only the other night you were saying what a worthy thing it would be to divert the wealth of the monasteries into education and charity. It is not you who seeks personal gain.”
“He made it appear that it was me,” Henry growled.
“That was not his intention, I’m sure, and your Grace need not worry, for the world will soon know the truth.”
“Your Grace, I must speak to you in private,” Cromwell insisted.
“Must? Master Secretary, it is the King you address,” Anne reminded him.
“I will see you later, Cromwell,” Henry said.
“We are going to dine now,” Anne said sweetly, and swept out.
—
At table, Henry did not mention Skip’s attack on his infidelity. He could neither deny it nor risk another quarrel. But his mood was sour for the rest of the day, and the unfortunate almoner received a verbal lashing from the Council. Anne did not know what had been said between Henry and Cromwell. It did not matter. She was about to stir up public opinion again.
