Six of One

by Joann Spears

  “Hey, wait a minute! What about that rule of three?” I objected. “Your butt should be burning too, Ann!”

  She did not agree.

  “A measure of well-deserved discipline does not qualify as harm in my book, Dolly. At any rate, our time grows short, so I will conclude my story. Before I became queen, I cast spells to make Henry want me, to make him wait to possess me, and to make him want no one but me while he waited. Once I was certain about my marriage to Henry, I cast spells that I might quickly conceive and that I might give birth to only girls. Those spells resulted in the birth of my daughter, Elizabeth, nine months after I first slept with Henry and in the miscarriage of a son in 1536. It was around that time that Tom Cromwell started practicing sorcery against me, and he was such a powerful warlock that I knew my days were numbered.”

  “‘Ann of the Thousand Days,’” I murmured.

  “That would indeed be my lifespan as a queen,” said Ann. “A spell of prognostication I cast at around that time indicated that I would die between the Wiccan sabbats of Beltane and Lughnasa. My life would end after the time of the melding of the masculine and feminine energies but before the time of the harvest.”

  I got misty eyed at this point, knowing as I did that the prognostication had been spot-on. Ann Boleyn was executed on May 19, 1536, after her Maypole dance with Henry VIII and long before seeing her dreams for her daughter come to fruition.

  “Don’t cry, Dolly,” said Ann, looking touched by my tears on her behalf. “The period between my prognostication and my death was not wasted; it gave me time to do what was necessary to protect my darling daughter.”

  “Henry Fitzroy, the illegitimate son that Henry VIII trotted out every so often as an emergency heir, must have been the first matter you directed your attention to,” I guessed. I knew that as a male child of Henry’s, Fitzroy posed a very real threat to Ann’s daughter, Elizabeth, ever inheriting the throne. There was also no denying the fact that, very conveniently, Fitzroy himself died only weeks after Ann Boleyn did.

  “I did not concern myself with the undoing of Henry Fitzroy,” Ann told me. “I only cast spells within the rules of white magic that would help get my daughter to her destiny. I trusted that they would be sufficient. First, spells for her health and safety, her wisdom and beauty, the love of her people, and the loyalty of her servants. Then, a spell of protection—that no mere male should ever get the best of her. That combination of spells would guarantee that nothing stood between her and the throne but would not bring harm to any living being. As for Henry Fitzroy’s death—that was Tom Cromwell’s doing, not mine.”

  “Your last spell worked beyond your wildest dreams, given your daughter’s track record with men,” I said.

  “After that last spell, I arranged for guardians to care for my daughter after my death. My colleagues in the coven felt it would be an honor to serve the child who Mother Shipton had said would be the reincarnation of the Goddess. I selected Kat Champernowne to be her nurse and governess and to see her through the trials of childhood.”

  Kat Champernowne, I knew, had married Ann Boleyn’s cousin, John Ashley, and become the same Kat Ashley who had served me cakes and ale earlier in the evening. Cakes and ale—how could I have failed to make the Wiccan connection?

  I congratulated Ann on a wise choice. “Kat came up trumps as nurse and governess during Elizabeth’s formative years, although she did have some hard traveling during the Tom Seymour episode. Kat must have been as faithful as a bulldog and twice as smart. Elizabeth herself said that Kat took ‘great labour and pain in bringing me up in learning and honesty.’”

  “Matthew Parker was my chaplain,” said Ann, “and the man to whom I entrusted my daughter Elizabeth’s formal education and political future. He did me no less proud.”

  “The men connected with your daughter’s education and welfare—Ascham, Cecil, and John Dee—all warlocks, as well?” I asked.

  “You forget, Dolly, that you are not allowed to ask me any questions.”

  “But you are allowed to ask me one,” I reminded her, “and our time together is running out. I see some rays of light making shadows on the floor out in the hallway; it must be morning coming on.”

  “Then, Dolly, I will get right to the point!” said Ann. “A lot of revelations have been made to you about a lot of things you probably wouldn’t have thought possible before. After all that, do you believe in magic?”

  “In a young girl’s heart,” I joked.

  “No, Dolly, not in a young girl’s heart; in your own heart.”

  “Hey, that hurt!” I grumbled.

  “Good God, Dolly! Are those sparks still playing about your arse?” asked Ann.

  “No, that wasn’t sparks. That was just the last gasp of my youth escaping,” I answered.

  “Well, we’ve no time for your vanity now, Dolly!” chastised Ann.

  I wished that I had the nerve to tell Ann Boleyn that vanity had nothing to do with my ruing my lost youth—nothing at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As the World Turns On Its Ear

  Kat Ashley entered the room, laden with a tray and seven glasses of an undoubtedly alcoholic beverage.

  “Dolly,” she said to me, “I am certain that you would like to toast the six who have shared and cared so very much for you tonight. And you six,” she said, with a sweeping gesture that embraced all six wives, “will want to salute the guest who understands you better than any of the other guests you have had here before.”

  “It’s true that Dolly understands us more intimately than most do; no, she understands us more intimately than anyone does. A toast!” cried Katharine of Aragon, with a final “Mistress of Ceremonies” gesture. “To Dolly and the marital decision, whatever it may be, that she will make back in the real world!”

  “To Dolly!” the five other wives echoed. The six voices in unison brought a tear to my eye and elicited a pert comment from Kat.

  “This is the first time I’ve ever heard the six of you agree about anything. Now that is something to toast! I shall go and fill myself a glass, so as not to miss the opportunity.” Kat went off to get toasted in private, leaving the seven of us alone together once more. I raised my glass to the six.

  “It is me who should be toasting you, my friends. Do you realize that after our time together tonight, I and I alone know something that absolutely no other living person knows?”

  Katherine Parr corrected me. “You now know lots of things that no other living person knows. You know about our illicit affairs with both men and women, our paternity politics, black and white magic, and murder. A veritable treasure trove of secrets is at your disposal.”

  “Your secrets are mere details, ladies! Can’t you see the big picture? The really big picture? The picture that is so honking big that it…it…it—”

  As words failed me for once, Jane Seymour interrupted, shaking with barely contained laughter.

  “You will pardon me for laughing, Dolly, but is the picture ‘so honking big’ that it’s even bigger than Henry?”

  “Yes! That’s it exactly! You’ve nailed it, Jane!”

  “That was clever of me, wasn’t it?” she crowed.

  “Clever? It was more than clever, Jane. It was myth shattering!”

  “You flatter me,” she demurred.

  “It’s more than flattery, don’t you see? Collectively, you six have come down through the centuries as possibly the world’s most famous band of victims—‘divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.’ Most people identify you by what Henry did to you, rather than by your personal attributes or even your names. Now, I know the whole truth. Sure, fate overtook each of you, but fate does that to all of us in the end. What each of you did along the way—which the world does not know about, but I do—is a complete reversal of the Tudor canon. The six wives were not the victims of Henry VIII; it was the other way around! Henry VIII was the victim of his wives. To the sixth degree!”

  Katherine Parr
gave me a puckish grin. “How naughty you make us sound, Dolly!”

  “Naughty? Katherine, you killed a king in cold blood!” I reminded her.

  “Really, Dolly! She did it in self-defense, after all!” said Catherine Howard, who had regained her lost chords.

  “As for you, Catherine,” I began, turning toward her, “you had the one thing that Henry wanted more than anything, the thing he defied his God for and never got: a son. And what a son your child was, too! He was a legend in his own time. How Henry struggled without success for just such a blessing, and it fell into your lap with nary an effort.”

  “Dolly, you have obviously never undergone childbirth,” Catherine Howard pointed out. “Otherwise you would know that the baby falls out of your lap, not into it. And it does not just fall, either; getting that baby out is hard work.”

  “That’s enough gynecology for now, Catherine; I’m sure Dolly knows where babies come from, at her age,” said Anne of Cleves.

  “Gee, thanks, Anne,” I responded.

  “No problem, dear. I’m returning the podium to you now, so take it away, Dolly!”

  “‘Taking it away’ was your victory, Anne. When Henry married you, he got one mighty Aphrodite, but all Jupiter could do was droop at her.”

  “That’s a pretty limp rhyme, Dolly,” Anne said.

  “Well, it is getting late,” I reminded her.

  “Surely, ‘Venus’ and ‘penis’ would have been less complicated. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that, Dolly.”

  “I did, but I thought it would be a cheap shot, using such low-hanging fruit to point out Henry’s lack of balls.”

  “I’ll just bet you did!” said Jane Seymour.

  “Well, when it comes to knowing how to place a bet, I can think of no better example than our very own Jane Seymour, here!” I said, turning to face Jane. “She cast her lot with Tom Cromwell and her fate to the wind. The other five wives may have been more vivid than you, Jane, but you did the one thing none of them did: you produced a king—the last Tudor king! And you did it without any input from Henry VIII—pun intended! It was the number-one scam of the sixteenth century!”

  Caught up in the moment, Ann Boleyn conjured something up from the craft basket, covered it with a table napkin, and presented it to Jane Seymour with her compliments.

  “Janie was a little lamb, but Janie scammed a great big scam! Don’t be afraid, Jane dear, go ahead and pull the napkin away so you can see what’s beneath,” she said.

  Jane pulled accordingly, and, with a puff of smoke, a bouquet of snapdragons appeared.

  “They are lovely, Ann! How can I ever thank you?” asked Jane.

  “Snapdragons are very fitting for you, Jane. In the language of flowers, they represent both graciousness and deceit,” said Ann.

  “Pardon me, Ann, but there are more than just snapdragons here,” said Jane. “There are also some shaggy golden blossoms that look just like little brooms and smell very sweet.”

  “How did those get in there?” demanded Ann. “I didn’t put them in.”

  “Well, someone did!” I said.

  Katharine of Aragon, with a twinkle in her eye and her finger aside her nose, confessed to the deed. “I cannot tell a lie. I did it!” she said proudly.

  Ann Boleyn also looked proud—and not a bit surprised.

  “You’ve been playing with my craft basket again, haven’t you, Katharine?”

  “I’ll never make a full-fledged witch like yourself,” Katharine answered flatteringly to Ann, “but you know I do enjoy dabbling now and then, and some witch hazel blossoms seemed a fitting tribute to you, Ann.”

  “You may not be able to tell a lie, but you were pretty good at withholding the truth,” I reminded Katharine of Aragon. “Of course, being one of the world’s most famously Catholic people, it’s only natural that you’d be driven to confess it sooner or later. That is exactly what you did when you owned up about your infidelity to Henry. All of his wives deceived him in some way or another, but you were the only one to hit him with the thing directly, the only one to confront him, face-to-face, with the truth about what you had done to him.”

  I told Katharine that I wished I could have been there to see the “she-nanigans” when she had. It would have been worth the price of admission to see Katharine standing squarely on her little flat feet and telling the prototypical macho man that she preferred another woman’s charms to his own. That must have been some kick in the head for Henry VIII.

  “The kick was delivered a little lower down than that, Dolly,” said Katharine. “I was not exactly on my little flat feet when I did it. Henry was so tall, and I was so short, that Maria brought over a footstool so that I could stand on it and tell him the truth face-to-face. That footstool also put me in the just the right position to kick him roundly in the codpiece when he said some very nasty things about my Maria!”

  “Well, my friends,” I said, when Katharine had finished speaking, “you have put me in a pretty pickle. You have given me the knowledge to set the historical woods on fire with the real truth about the six wives of Henry VIII. The dilemma is that I have the knowledge but not the proof. I am an academician. I need to rest my case on research, primary resources, extant documents, and archival records. How do I go back without proof and tell the world that the whole ‘poor, put-upon six wives of Henry VIII’ thing is all wrong?”

  How was I going to tell the world that “divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived” only skimmed the surface? How would I convince them that “unsexed him, hexed him, robbed him, bobbed him, topped him, and stopped him” was much more like it? I would be like Dorothy returning from Kansas with a wonderful tale to tell that no one back home would believe; everyone would think I dreamed it.

  “Your real story should be—no, must be—told!” I said to them. “Somehow, it must be! I owe the truth to you. I owe the truth to the world. And I owe the truth to myself.”

  “Dolly,” began Anne of Cleves softly, taking my hand and gently squeezing it, “you are as close to the truth now as we can ever bring you, and it is time for us to leave you. We will remember you fondly, dear, as we hope you will remember us, no matter what.”

  “No matter what,” I echoed. “I will remember each of you; but Anne of Cleves, I think I’ll remember you most fondly of all.”

  “Why, Dolly?”

  “Because you had a little bit of ‘happy ending’ with your Hans, and I love a happy ending.”

  “I hope you will have one as well, dear heart.”

  A voice called from a nearby room—a very sweet voice.

  “Ladies, we’ve only a few moments left.”

  Leaving me with six heartfelt hugs and six heartfelt kisses, the six wives filed out of the room without looking back. At the doorway, yet another woman waited to walk in.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Chapter Known Simply as

  “Over the Rainbow”

  When I was a little girl, I thought that the most beautiful woman in the world was Glinda the Good Witch, as played by Billie Burke in the Wizard of Oz. I can still remember the thrill of watching the movie go from sepia to color and seeing Glinda—all curly blonde hair, quivery voice, and poufy pink dress—waft onto the scene under her silvery crown.

  I felt just like that again as yet another female in a farthingale came shimmering into the room. She was as lovely as a dream, just like Glinda. Of course, there were differences, most notably, a lot of draped red velvet and gold in lieu of the poufy pink and silver ensemble, but that was all for the best. Glinda’s silver-star wand was also absent, but, in its place, she wielded a gold embroidery hoop containing a partially completed piece of needlework, and on her thumb was a gold thimble. The hoop and thimble made me realize who she was, and suddenly the prospect of going back home felt like the Technicolor reverting to sepia again at the end of The Wizard of Oz. I couldn’t fight the urge to bask for just a moment in this woman’s charm, because the lovely figure before me was
the most romantic queen ever: Mary, Queen of Scots.

  Mary Queen of Scots’ life story, set against a subtext of drop-dead good looks, French fashion sense, and every advantage, almost defied belief in its farcical downward spiral: there were poets hiding under beds, adultery, explosions, kidnappings, forged letters, midnight rides, pilfered keys, disguises, foiled prison escapes, ciphered messages, smuggled notes, and even an allegedly topless appearance at an Edinburgh window one night. I would kill to be able to grill her about it all, I thought, but the light peeping through the arrow-slit window reminded me that my remaining time was just about nil.

  “I can’t imagine what you must think of me,” I said to her, regaining my composure after what was, for me, a pretty lengthy silence. “I must have appeared awfully foolish, gaping at you like that.”

  “Well, if anyone can sympathize with appearing foolish, it is I, Dolly,” she said simply. “It really doesn’t do, though,” she added, “to concern oneself too much with appearances.”

  I took her point; however, I had no choice but to concern myself with appearances for at least another minute or two, because yet another woman had just made one and stood before me. There was no mistaking who she was: that carroty hair was a dead giveaway.

  The firecracker Elizabeth had aged considerably since our last encounter; she now looked to be well into middle age. She was wearing the same outfit that she wore in the portrait of her known as the Rainbow Portrait. With great big orange hair, a great big orange dress, a great big Renaissance ruff, and a great big string of great big pearls, she was larger than life.

  “Hello, Dolly,” Elizabeth said.

  I knew someone would say it before the night was out; someone always does.

  “My goodness,” she continued, “now that I see you in that outfit and French hood, you do look just like Catherine Willoughby. Everyone here has their hopes up because of it, Dolly, but I am not so sure. It could just mean that things are going to go wrong for you in a bigger way than usual when you get back home.”