by Norah Lofts
“God. And my conscience. God appoints to each of us his station in life, my lords; and He called me to be Queen of England. My conscience forbids that I should call myself by any other title.”
Norfolk said, “But, Madam, there can be but one Queen of England; His Grace can have but one wife.”
“There we are agreed, my lord.”
“His Grace married the Marchioness of Pembroke more than two months ago.”
The room went dark. She was standing, as she had received them, dragging her sagging figure to its full height, attaining dignity. Now she wished she were sitting. Her legs were failing her. She might fall; she might faint. No, pride forbade. Never should they see how deep and fatal this wound was.
“Married? How? By some hedge priest, under cover of darkness?” Her voice was bitter. “No proper cleric would have dared!”
“I can assure you, Madam, the ceremony was properly performed and duly witnessed. I was not myself present. But there are those here who were.”
“Which of you?”
They stared at her, their faces noncommittal. Seldom in all history had there been so well-kept a secret. The marriage had taken place in the presence of the bride’s parents, three attendants, one serving woman, and certain members of the King’s Privy Council; and only those who had been present knew who else was there. Even the exact date and place and the name of the officiating priest were secrets.
“It matters little who watched this masquerade. Marriage it was not. His Grace is my lawful wedded husband, and so long as I live he can have no other wife.”
The Duke of Norfolk felt again that unease which the whole question of the annulment, and the consequences arising from it were bound to arouse in a truly Catholic breast. While he turned his eyes inward for a second the Duke of Suffolk said in his brutal way,
“Madam, your information is outdated. The Convocation of Canterbury recently decreed that Pope Julius had no power to permit His Grace to marry you and therefore that the marriage was null and void.”
“I knew that. But I question the right of the Convocation of Canterbury to give judgment on the matter.”
“Then, Madam, you question the validity of our English law; for Parliament has said that the English Church is sufficient to determine all statutes and that as Head of the English Church the King is the final judge of all things spiritual.”
She wanted to say—These powers are self-assumed and mean nothing: I could call myself Queen of France, but that would not make me so. But bandying words was a waste of time. Once again she took her stand upon law as she understood it.
“My case is even now under consideration by the Roman courts and should not be tried elsewhere.”
“Your case was lost years ago. And it is essential that you should recognize the truth, Madam; for Queen Anne is already with child.”
Again their faces seemed to blur and recede into blackness. This was the end of all hope. No! The end of all hope if the child should be a boy. If Anne Boleyn could produce a prince the English would be so delighted that even the most conservatively minded of them would contrive to believe that the boy had been born in wedlock.
And Mary would be nothing. Worst of all, Mary would never have a chance to repair the damage which Henry—under the evil influence of that woman—had done to the Holy Roman Catholic Church in England.
Not a glimmer of fear or doubt showed in her face, or her voice, as she said,
“Until the Pope dissolves our marriage, the Princess Mary will be His Grace’s only legal issue and therefore heir to the throne.”
It was no more than they had expected; and Norfolk was prepared.
“In that case, Madam, I must, with regret, inform you of His Grace’s plans for you. The generous offers which he made in return for the withdrawing of your claim no longer hold good. Lord Mountjoy will no longer be your host, but your custodian; your allowance will be cut by three-quarters. You will be allowed to keep no state and your household will be reduced to a minimum.”
“Then I shall feel no pinch,” Catherine said calmly. “I need only my chaplain, my physician, and two maids. They will continue to address me, and refer to me, by my proper title. I wish you to tell His Majesty that, and add that if such a modest household is a burden upon his resources, I am prepared to go about the country asking alms.”
There was just a hint of a threat there. Catherine had retained the affection of the ordinary people, particularly of the women; if every man, married twenty years, could find some excuse for following his latest fancy, what woman would be safe? Catherine was Mrs. Everywoman; and the world was full of interlopers, wicked women, would-be breakers of homes, like that Nan Bullen. If it once got about that the King was being mean to Catherine over money, while loading Anne with gifts, there would be an uproar!
Norfolk said, “That will hardly be necessary, Madam. His Grace meant only that since you are not Queen, if you refused the rank of Dowager Princess of Wales and the allowances that accompanies the title, then you must be content to be an ordinary gentlewoman.”
“And that I can never be in this life,” she said simply. “If it pleases God, and His Holiness to take away my title as Queen, I shall remain what I was born, Princess of Aragon.”
To that there was no answer; the Dukes and the lords went away.
Now she could sit down and give way to the trembling which shook her like a palsy. She wanted to weep, but weeping did no good, it only made one’s head thick so that clear thought was difficult. And she needed to think clearly; because one of the things which Norfolk had learned by heart and repeated concerned Mary. He’d said that Mary was to go to London and be one of Anne’s ladies, by the King’s wish. If that were true, Mary must go; for over a matter of such small consequence Henry was entitled to double obedience, as King, as father. But, however much humiliated, Mary must stand firm upon her unassailable right; she was Henry’s daughter, born in wedlock, heir to the throne.
She must write to Mary. To encourage, not to admonish. Mary needed no admonishment; Mary was a rock. But she was only seventeen; and she was dreadfully alone.
As I am, Catherine thought. How eagerly she would have welcomed a letter of encouragement. None ever came. Clement went from procrastination to procrastination; making a little promise, withdrawing it; making threats against Henry and taking no action. And the Emperor Charles was just as bad. Nobody had ever come, fully armed and wholeheartedly to her aid. No! To think in that way wronged Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, who had never wavered, and her chaplain, Thomas Abell, who had first pleaded her cause in Rome and then published a book defending the marriage. For that he had been imprisoned in the Tower. And she had, she was certain, many faithful, nameless friends. She owed it to them to fight on.
Her mind moved on to Henry. How displeased he would be by the answers she had returned him. She imagined how Anne, insolent in her hope of a son, must have nagged him before he—always so generous—would have agreed to cut down her allowance. Then another thought came, an icicle in the heart; how convenient for everyone if she—and Mary—died. Those who accused Anne of witchcraft also called her a poisoner. Bishop Fisher’s supper broth had been poisoned one evening; several of his guests had died and he had been ill for a month. Mary must be warned of that danger, too, and she herself must be very careful. Anne would become desperate now, knowing, as she must in her heart, that her marriage was no marriage and that her child would be a bastard.
As Catherine took her place by the table where she spent so many hours, and prepared to write, one of her women entered and hovered as though anxious to speak.
“You have heard the news, I daresay,” Catherine said, wishing to forestall any lamentations over the reduced household, any veiled expressions of sympathy because of the marriage and the pregnancy. “I shall make my own arrangements, when I am ready. Nothing else has altered so far as I am concerned.”
“I was wondering, your Grace, whether they told you about Bishop Fisher. I heard just
now, in the courtyard.”
“What about him?”
“They say he’s been arrested and taken to the Tower and will have his head cut off.”
Catherine thought of that noble, craggy old head; of that clear brain, dauntless courage, golden tongue.
“For being my friend,” she said faintly.
“There was another reason given, your Grace. He found fault with something that Lord Rochfort said, or did in France.”
“And since when has it been treason to criticize George Boleyn? That is too flimsy…But if such a charge can take Bishop Fisher to the block there is no law left in England.”
Suffolk had said, “Then, Madam, you question the validity of our English law.” The implication was—You, a Spaniard.
I may be next, she thought. If the English law can declare me unmarried it can behead me.
She began to write to Mary the kind of letter, urgent, full of advice, that a mother would write, thinking it to be her last.
She laid no blame on Henry. This was all the work of that wicked woman who held him in thrall, the cruel, ruthless, clever creature whom the London crowds called Nan Bullen.
XXVI
He had been very much grieved that the arms of the Queen had not only been taken from her barge, but also rather shamefully mutilated…And whatever regret the King may have shown at the taking of the Queen’s barge the Lady has made use of it…God grant she may content herself with the said barge, the jewels and the husband of the Queen.
The Spanish Ambassador in a letter to Charles V
LONDON. MAY 1533
EMMA ARNETT SOMETIMES REFLECTED WRYLY that if this prince were born straight-backed, with all his limbs in the right place, sound in mind and unmarked of skin, England would have her to thank for it. Often, in the middle of an emotional scene, or when she fell exhausted into her bed, she would think that nothing, nothing in the world except her anti-Papist beliefs and her recognition of the need to keep the Lady Mary from the throne, could ever have held her to her present employment. Now and then she’d remember, with ironic amusement, that the first thing she had ever admired about young Mistress Boleyn had been her self-control. Now she had none and almost every day gave way to some kind of emotional excess of the kind a breeding woman should avoid. None of her ladies—even the few of whom she was fond and who were fond of her—seemed to have any influence. The burden always in the end, fell upon Emma.
She had what Emma called “a wild turn” when she heard that threats had failed to move Catherine.
“She must be mad! There’s nothing for her to hope for now. It’s all over and done with, but she won’t admit it. Spite, that’s what it is, spite against me. And I never did her any harm. The King told me that he was a bachelor before I ever allowed him even to kiss me. That is true, Emma; I have letters to prove it. He called me cold and unkind. I didn’t take her husband; he never was her husband. Yet there she sits, spoiling everything, calling herself Queen and turning people against me.”
“Nobody’s against you, Your Grace, except the Papists.”
“Then the streets must be full of them. Dumb, surly, staring. I’m beginning to dread my Coronation—if they behave as they have done…”
“They don’t matter. Nothing matters, except that you should bear a sound child; and I’ve told you a hundred times that getting wrought up is bad, bad for you both. Put your feet up, now, and be calm.”
“How can I be calm? Do you know the latest thing they’re saying! That I asked for Prin…for the Lady Mary to be one of my maids-in-waiting. How does that sound? As though I would! Would I want that glowering, pasty-faced girl always about me, reminding me?…”
She began to walk the room in the way Emma knew so well and now dreaded.
“It was the King’s idea. He thought the mere mention of it would shock Catherine into agreeing to what he asked of her. And the truth behind that, Emma, is that he isn’t easy in his mind. Far from it. The Bishops at Canterbury, the Parliament, the special Court at Dunstable may all declare that he never was married to her, but as long as she sits there calling herself his wife and Queen Catherine he can never be truly at ease.”
“He’ll be easy once the child is born—which it won’t be if you go on stamping and shouting. Sit down now, and put your feet up.”
Anne’s behavior worried Emma because it was so unnatural. She was now five months pregnant and ordinarily, by that time, a breeding woman had become placid and imperturbable. Emma had seen it over and over again; women who had been resentful—We’ve six now and hard-pressed to feed them, and the youngest hardly on his feet, and who’ll feed the calves, and I meant to rear geese this year…But soon, before there was any outward sign, they’d be resigned, saying that where there were six to feed one more made no difference, and somebody would see to the calves, and geese could wait till next year. God knew His business…But of course, she conceded, she was thinking of ordinary women, concerned with ordinary things. Anne’s case was different. And thinking that gave Emma patience.
On one point no patience was called for; she, as well as Anne, was deeply anxious about the child’s sex. A boy was needed. Even those resolute Papists who still held that only the Pope could give Henry permission to put away Catherine and condemn Mary to bastardy would hesitate when it came to choose between a Princess and a Prince to take the throne. But even here Emma took the long view, and when Anne said, “It must be a boy. She gave him a girl and I must do better,” Emma retorted that a strong girl would be earnest of a boy to follow and that to get excited over this, as over any other matter, was bad. She called up all her old country lore.
“So far as I can see, so early, it is lying high which is said to be a sign of a boy. Boys they say, ride high from the start. And you haven’t sickened, not since the first month. There’s an old saying that wenches sicken you early, lads later. But if you go on acting so excitable you’ll end with nothing, as I’ve said before.”
“Nan Savile said that where she comes from they can tell with a needle and thread.”
“A needle and thread,” Emma said cautiously. “And pray, Your Grace, how do they do that?”
“By the way it swings—held over the place where the child lies. To and fro for a boy, she said, round and round for a girl.”
That, to Emma, unlike the riding high or the occurrence of sickness which seemed to her capable of natural explanation, savored of superstition; but she was willing to do anything that would keep Anne calm.
So they tried; and the needle and thread, like most oracles, gave an ambiguous answer. It swung to and fro in a straight line; then it wavered and went round and round; then, controlled by Emma, it swung in the desired way.
“It must be a boy,” Anne said, striking her fists on the bed where she had lain for the experiment. “It must be, it must be. A girl would ruin all.”
“So would a miscarriage,” Emma said.
She attributed a good deal of Anne’s behavior to the strain of the forthcoming Coronation. Henry was keeping his promise to make it the finest ever seen; and sometimes when he and Anne had been together, Anne would be pleasantly excited, speaking of how this street was to be hung all with crimson and scarlet, and the other with cloth of gold, of what she herself would wear, and how royally she was to be attended. Emma encouraged such talk, which was healthy and natural. All too often though it would lead on to Anne’s bugbear, her nervous apprehension of how the crowds would behave.
“His Grace can order them to dress the streets and provide pageants, but he can’t order them to cheer. Suppose I go down in history as the queen who rode through silence to be crowned. And why? What have I done that they should hate me so?”
“They’ll cheer when they see you go to your crowning,” Emma said. “It takes time for thick heads to get used to changes and up to now it’s all been a bit of a muddle, with just a few stubborn people running round and saying you weren’t even married. You’ll see the difference now.”
Neverthele
ss she took the precaution of mentioning Anne’s fears to her Milk Street friends who undertook to have little groups of partisans posted at various important points to give the crowds a lead.
And then, as the preparations began to take shape, the King himself did something which made Emma long to box his ears, stupid, blundering, sentimental fool that he was.
She had seen immediately, when Anne returned from having supper with him that something had upset her. Her lips were so tightly pressed that her mouth was just a line, and her eyes were enormous and too bright. All through her undressing she spoke hardly a word and finally her ladies, discouraged by the silence or the monosyllables with which their chatter was received, fell silent, too. The lack of conversation and the way the watchful Emma kept saying, “I’ll do that,” or “You can leave that to me,” cut down the ceremony of disrobing by fifteen minutes.
When they were alone Anne said, “Brush my hair again, Emma. I’m too upset to sleep yet.”
“I could see something was amiss. But you should try not to upset yourself. Some silly little thing, I’ll be bound.”
“It was far from little. Nothing goes right for me. Nothing. I wish I’d never been born.”
Emma brushed, steadily, soothingly. She’d hear all, in time.
“Whose barge would you suppose I should use for my river journey?”
“The Queen’s—if there is such a thing.”
“So I thought—not that I was consulted, but had I been I should have told my chamberlain to do just what he did do. There is a Queen’s barge, and I am Queen; so my chamberlain took it and had Catherine’s arms burned off and mine painted on. What was wrong with that?”
“Who says anything was wrong?” Emma’s mind flew to Lady Rochfort, known to hate her sister-in-law, known to be a supporter of Catherine, known to possess a bitter and rather bold tongue.
