Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  We were lovers now, in every sense of the word. Yet I hesitated to allow him into my bed night after night, still hoping that when our son was conceived, we would be man and wife. And marriage was an objective which had yet to be fulfilled, although having known him and loved him for seven years, in my heart, I felt as if it had.

  Yes, it had been seven long years from the moment at which my destiny became one with that of Henry, King of England, by a sublime exchange of glances. From that instant, nothing had been, or would ever again be commonplace in my life, and I could scarcely give rise to a thought without considering Henry’s opinion of the same. He was, as Aristotle had foretold, my second self. And I was his. And since we were like the same being, I would achieve all that was good for Henry, and he would do the same for me.

  Fiercely did the arguments surrounding the Great Matter swirl. Henry’s demanded divorce from Katherine became the linchpin in all that was transformative in England and Europe in that year of 1532. The growing acceptance of Lutheranism, pitted against a continued resolute allegiance to Roman Catholicism caused many a bitter standoff between countrymen. Henry’s battle with the Pope and the Holy See over his divorce, and his acknowledgement of the logic in many reformist writings of the day caused him to consider breaking from Rome and the Church, although he had been thus far loath to do so. I firmly believed this to be the only way forward, and encouraged him to that end. And significantly, my views and visible role as Henry’s beloved and his intended wife positioned me in the eyes of many as the emblem of all that was wrong in the realm.

  Strong alliances between countries were of paramount importance, and Henry was keen to nurture the accord he had carefully built with François I of France, especially in light of the bond between Charles V of Spain - the Holy Roman Emperor and nephew of his estranged wife Katherine - and Pope Clement VII. The ambassadors of François, who were envoys to the English court, were given great access to the King and his council and were frequently fêted at dinners and banquets. The French ambassador of the moment, Giles de La Pommeraie, gave early indications were that he would be a helpful courier of information and builder of good will between the powerful monarchs of England and France.

  Progress

  July and August 1532

  As predicted, Monsieur de La Pommeraie did prove a true ally. He used his considerable skill as a statesman to gain François’ agreement to a new treaty Henry greatly desired between England and France, ensuring their united Christian front against a potential attack from the Infidel, the Turk Suleiman. Henry was well pleased, as was I, if only because it deepened the bond between the two countries – both of which were home to me. I considered myself as much French as I did English.

  Since the degree of affinity between France and England was of concern to Emperor Charles, his man in England, Eustace Chapuys, was on point to make sure his master was regularly and thoroughly informed. It was fascinating, then, to observe Ambassador Chapuys’ mad scramble in an attempt to uncover the details of the proposed treaty.

  To reward La Pommeraie for his success, Henry invited him to join us on summer Progress across the bountiful royal hunting grounds north of London. He was honoured by the invitation, accepted graciously, and in early July, a small band of us departed for Waltham. We resided at Waltham Abbey for about a week, then set off for Hunsdon, where we planned to visit my new Manor of Hanworth.

  What a splendid summer I had. After supper, Henry and I would meander, enjoying early evening on the grounds of Hanworth and listening to the lyric songs of thrushes, dunnocks, and nightingales; admiring the precisely trimmed lawns, shimmering emerald in the deeply slanting sunlight; the formal gardens immaculately groomed; the endless rows of strawberries warmed by the day’s sun and affording a soft, sweet aroma delicious enough to make one’s mouth water. By day, we hunted in the adjacent woods and park. Departing the manor, we then travelled northward, towards Nottingham.

  Monsieur de La Pommeraie was a capable rider and sportsman, and often after the hunt had concluded and we were headed back to the manor house, I watched him deep in conversation with Henry, their big bay hunters walking almost in tandem, tails switching.

  One evening over supper, Henry told me he and La Pommeraie were working on plans to meet with Francois – on French soil.

  “Remember, Anne, I told you I had several surprises in store for you?”

  I could not contain my anticipation. I did not dare breathe. I yearned to go to France again. “I do, Henry. Can that possibly mean you will take me with you?”

  “It does, sweetheart.”

  I jumped up from the table with a shriek of delight, twirled about joyfully, then hugged Henry around his neck with such fervour that I near choked him.

  He grinned. “I cannot wait to show you off to François and his nobility, my special beauty. He will rue the day he allowed you to return home to England those years ago.”

  “Henry, how I do adore you! Thank you, my darling.”

  My lips curled in a smile, not at all unlike the cat that stole the cream.

  The very next afternoon, I rode out with Monsieur de La Pommeraie. We paused on a hillock, shading our eyes from the hot sun with our hands, watching a parcel of deer leap and bound across the field below.

  I leaned towards him in my saddle, affecting an air of familiarity. “Monsieur, you do know that I have been asked by the King to accompany him on his diplomatic trip to France?”

  “Oui, Madame, I am aware of this, and could not be more delighted. What a wonderful addition you will be to the event. My King will be greatly pleased to see you once again, je suis certain.”

  I smiled sweetly in response, well aware that the Monsieur was an ardent admirer of women. “Then, Monsieur, may I request a favour? Or - perhaps two favours, if you would be so kind.”

  I lowered my voice and came closer to him. His thin, groomed moustache quivered slightly. “Will you see to it that a special person joins François’ retinue? Will you have François’ sister, Marguerite de Navarre, join the guests? I was, as a girl, influenced by that great lady, and I would be overjoyed to see her again. And Monsieur, I would be ever so grateful if you might persuade your master, le bon Roi François, to personally extend me an invitation – one of a more formal nature?”

  “Bien sûr, Lady Anne,” he swept a gallant bow, well executed from the back of his horse. “Certainment, it will be my pleasure to do as you ask.”

  “Oh, and Monsieur … just one more tiny favour, if I might be so bold?”

  “Madame?”

  “I would not wish to be in a position to have to entertain the Queen – Queen Eleanor. I would not want her to feel awkward, you understand, since she is, after all, Katherine’s niece. I feel sure she would have no desire to see me, either. You, ah … do follow, do you not, Monsieur?”

  “Absolument, Madame.” He gave me a knowing nod. I returned a smile of great warmth, and lightly touched his arm as a gesture of thanks before we rode on.

  By the beginning of August, the King’s progress had become more about hunting and planning for the visit to France than creating the expected royal pageantry for the locals as we moved from town to town. Nevertheless, Henry continued to meet his subjects and bestow great generosity upon them. Especially kind to the poorest of country folk, Henry had his special apothecary make up some medicines and deliver them along with much-needed foodstuffs to the parents of an ailing child who were beside themselves with surprise and thankfulness.

  From a stay at Grafton Manor, we rode to Woodstock, and a few days later, on to the Palace of Langley.

  On our first evening’s stay at King’s Langley, Henry and I supped alone in his chamber. Ravenously hungry after our long, hot ride, I was relishing the baked artichokes, salad of herbs and cucumber, and roast chicken the cook had prepared for us.

  I had a bite of chicken halfway to my mouth, when Henry quietly asked, “Wo
uld you prefer to be addressed as ‘Madame Marquess’ - or simply ‘Lady Marquis?”

  Not being sure I had heard correctly, I put down my knife with the chicken still impaled upon it. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon? I do not understand.”

  An enigmatic smile played about his lips. He lingered, enjoying the moment. Then – “I have decided to create you Marquis of Pembroke, my lady, and wish to know how you will be addressed thereafter.” He watched while my expression slowly changed from confusion to wonder, then astonishment.

  “Could you mean you wish to convey me with a title? On my own account? I am confounded, Henry. There are no women who hold such titles in their own right.”

  My uncertainty was apparent, for he responded, “You, Anne, are not simply any woman; you are a special woman. You are my other self. Thus, you should – you must – have a title, and an important one, with great meaning. So, yes, that is correct - I intend to create you a Marquess fully in your own right. You will hold the title once held by my great-uncle, Jasper Tudor. It is the Earldom in which my father was born. It is a title befitting a great lady.”

  “I am at a loss for words, Your Grace. Your generosity astounds me.”

  “It is an honour you deserve, Anne. Cromwell is already hard at work planning the event. The ceremony will take place on the first day of September, at Windsor. You, my dear, must now work purposefully to prepare your attire for that day, and for our trip to France. Make certain your ladies look glorious as well.”

  Tears of love and gratification brimmed, then spilled to drop onto Henry’s hand, which I grasped as I knelt before him. Slowly, I turned it over and kissed his palm, then said, “Your Majesty, I cannot wait to give you a gift of great joy; the one you most deserve – a handsome, healthy son.”

  The King lifted my chin and looked into my eyes. “I have no doubt whatsoever that gift – that day – will come soon, Anne.”

  The last two weeks of August flew by. We progressed from King’s Langley to Abingdon Abbey. There, Maggie Wyatt, my Receiver-General George Taylor and I met with mercers, silkwomen, tailors, furriers, goldsmiths and jewellers in a flurry of activity to create the wardrobe I would need both for my creation ceremony and the visit to France as Henry’s consort. Between meetings and fittings I hunted with Henry in the forests of Wychwood, and though the sport was fine with both stag and boar being plentiful, I was elsewhere: completely absorbed in anticipation of the imminent ceremony, and our trip.

  The array of fabrics from which one could choose was astonishing. There were textiles imported from Italy and France, Belgium and Persia – a heavy bolt of leaf-green velvet patterned with embroidered chestnut branches on ivory silk with silver thread; a luxurious violet damask with a gold-woven lattice pattern enclosing dragons framed within laurel wreaths; delicate silk ciselé velvet in black and gold with silver; damask brocaded with brightly coloured silks in a pattern of parrots with bunches of flowers in vases and crowns … The dressmakers jabbered while they pinned and stitched patterns on me, holding the extraordinary bolts of cloth against me and each other to determine the best selections. I had requested that the seamstresses use patterns from the most current designs in the French Court. Frenchwomen might be fashionable, but I had no intention of being outdone.

  Windsor

  August and September 1532

  And, oh, the jewels!

  It is quite impossible to describe the brilliance, the variety - the sheer luxury of such a collection. Because he decided to have many of his gems reset, Henry felt it a good time to review the royal collection in total, and acquire new pieces.

  Henry summoned me to the library where he and his royal goldsmith, Master Cornelis Hayss, were reviewing designs for an important new jewelled collar to be worn by the King on our trip. I looked over the drawing, and thinking how stupendous it would look on Henry’s impressive chest and shoulders, approved robustly. The collar, a wide, thick and ornate rope which, once draped over his shoulders would encircle his chest, was to be made from the glowing, ancient gold from deep within the ancient Dolaucothi mine, in the county of Carmarthen, Wales. The collar was to be inlaid with seven sizable blood red balasses, interspersed with large round diamonds set in twos. Its appearance would be astounding, for it would take a man of Henry’s stature as well as endurance to wear it for more than mere minutes, for it would be as heavy as a thick vest of armour.

  My uncle, Norfolk, had been sent on the unpleasant mission of reclaiming the Queen’s jewels from Katherine. As I predicted, he returned empty-handed, with an account of her indignant defiance, and her refusal to relinquish anything – most especially anything for my use – me, whom she called ‘the scandal of Christendom’! Upon hearing this, Henry growled, “Norfolk, you tell her she is to release the royal jewels to you immediately, at my direct command, and without further comment, or suffer the consequences.” I opened my mouth to vent what I intended as a biting remark about Katherine’s Spanish insolence, but on second thought, clamped it shut. Oh, how good it would have felt to air my contempt in a verbal assault! Instead, I came upon a more diabolical idea – one which pleased me. Once the Queen’s jewels were in my possession, I would savour the supreme satisfaction of wearing her favourite, most recognizable, most personal jewel to the grand banquet for François I when Henry- my betrothed - and I were in Calais.

  With the Queen’s jewels retrieved and added to the collection, it was immense in scope. One would have thought the task of examining many of the most precious gems in the world would be a heady pleasure, but I found it overwhelming. In a heavily guarded inner chamber at Windsor, Henry, Thomas Cromwell, Master Cornelis Hayss, and I silently stared at two long tables, draped in black velvet and laden with jewels of every description.

  There were twenty stunning table-cut rubies and two large diamonds which Henry had set aside for me. Equally enticing were emeralds of varying sizes and depths of green; aquamarines which looked like chunks of the bluest sea; more than fifty diamonds, cut in the newest style, two large rose- crimson balasses and a vast assortment of milky, radiant pearls, some loose, and some set in gold … hundreds in number. My eye was quickly drawn to three cabochons of the Persian stone, turquoise. I had seen but one piece of this stone before, in a brooch owned by Queen Claude in France. I found its colour to be heavenly: the shade of a brilliant blue sky, but the stone was not clear; it did not shimmer in the light. Instead, its silken smooth surface pulsed with an intensity of colour I found irresistible.

  Henry saw me, enchanted, and broke the silence. “Hayss, what do you propose to create with these pieces of turquoise for the Lady Marquess?”

  Master Hayss promptly replied, “I think they would look best set into a golden coronet, Your Majesty, which could be worn alone or might well be attached to a hood. Then its colour will often accent the Lady’s lovely face. Do you agree?”

  “I do, indeed, Hayss. You are a man who both creates, and appreciates great beauty. I will look forward to seeing your handiwork.”

  I knew it would become one of my best-loved pieces.

  In preparation for the ceremony which would create me Marquess of Pembroke, my mother and sister Mary arrived at Windsor. The ladies’ apartments being now filled with family and the women who made up my growing household, I was in exceedingly high spirits. In the warmth of late summer, my ladies and I partook of an afternoon outing on that last day in August; rugs with wine, delicacies to nibble, cards and games spread on the lawn at the base of the lower ward of the castle. As Jolie and several other dogs gambolled, chased, and snapped at each other, then came panting to flop down beside us, the ladies laughed and joked, sang, danced and fluttered about me in anticipation of the events planned for the next day.

  I did not see Henry at all that day or evening. Unusually, I was glad of this, since I wanted him to be surprised and dazzled by my appearance at the ceremony.

  Early on Sunday, the first of September, I was awaken
ed by Maggie. While the chambermaids set a table with ale, fruits, cheeses and bread I rose, shrugged my dressing gown over my shoulders, and went with Maggie into the wardrobe where my ceremonial gown and cloak hung, waiting. We both drew in our breath upon seeing the ensemble in the clear light of morning. It delighted the eye. Both the gown and cloak were made of the softest, deepest crimson velvet which gave off an opulent sheen. The kirtle was cloth of gold, and the bodice completely overlaid with gold embroidery. The neckline was trimmed with rubies, pearls, and diamonds, and the sleeves were slender, straight, and long, ending in a point set with pearls. The surcoat was a marvel. Crimson velvet lined in crimson satin, with a flowing train bordered entirely by the most sumptuous pure white ermine. I could scarcely believe I was to wear such garments.

  My toilette began with a warm, scented bath. My ladies’ maids brushed out my hair, drying it afore the hearth fire, and applying a touch of lemon oil to enhance its shine. I took care with my cosmetique, not applying much, as I wanted my face to be unadorned.

  I was laced into my chemise, petticoat, kirtle, and bodice, the beautiful sleeves attached, and my hair brushed loose, glistening while flowing to my waist. Finally began the task of donning the jewels which had been selected for this day. I wore the emerald ring Henry had given me for our betrothal, the thick ropes of gold which had been part of the Queen’s jewellery, diamond rings on the first and last fingers of my left hand, a carcanet of gold studded with rubies about my neck, and a girdle about my waist of woven gold, each tail embedded with diamonds.