Struck With the Dart of Love

by Sandra Vasoli

  Starkey, D., Six Wives, The Queens of Henry VIII, New York: HarperCollins, 2003

  Thurley, S., The Royal Palaces of Tudor England - Architecture and Court Life 146 0 – 1547, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1993

  Discover Book Two...

  The Palace of Whitehall

  February 1533

  Lo, he was something to observe - as observe I did, with pride and pleasure: my royal consort in resplendent authority, impeccably groomed and luxuriously draped in burnished sable, his broad chest weighted with a golden, gem-studded collar. He was radiant! Flush with health, his resonant voice echoing as he paced the length of the new gallery in Whitehall with his councillors. The events of recent weeks had steeped him in vigour and confidence.

  No one wore an air of aplomb as well as did my husband, Henry VIII of England.

  Unconsciously I placed my hands on my gently swelling belly. The gesture had become a habit for me of late. With a contented smile I reflected over the months since late autumn, when Henry and I had travelled to Calais to meet with the French king, François I. It had been a triumphant visit for me - Anne Boleyn - the girl who had spent her youth at the royal court of France, being groomed in the ways of royal demeanor, Christian humanism, and womanhood. Now I returned in splendour as a Marquess in my own right, accompanied by my betrothed, His Grace the King. We enjoyed a most pleasing and very successful stay, and an even more romantic trip homeward, taking our time crossing the English countryside, revelling in each other’s company before – very reluctantly on my part - returning to London just before Christmastide. Even that sojourn had been an unexpected pleasure. The winter season spent at Greenwich was jubilant despite our increased disillusionment with the Pope and his obstinate refusal to align with Henry in granting him his rightful divorce from Katherine of Aragon. Regardless of that cumbrance, I basked in the adoration of a man with whom I now lived as if we were husband and wife. Yes, I had decided before we departed for Calais to abandon my dogged stance to remain chaste before we wed. The resulting fulfilment of living as a couple was rewarding and we were happy and content with one another. Indeed, it was a Christmas to be remembered.

  During that halcyon period, I did admittedly experience one cause for anxiety - it seemed I had the beginnings of a nagging illness which I could not identify. I had eaten less and less yet remained nauseous throughout the day while feeling overbearingly tired in the afternoons. Only when my maid, Lucy, tried valiantly to lace me into the bodice of a new gown, resulting in the spillage of an unusually ample bosom from its neckline, did I finally perceive the exultant truth - I was pregnant with Henry’s child! Please be to God, with his son? Never again will there be such a gift for the New Year as was that realization. The tender scene between us when I told him the news will be forever etched in my mind’s eye. Occasionally I had allowed myself the luxury of imagining a time when I might announce a pregnancy to the King – I would create a gorgeous, elaborate tableau in which to unveil the news. The moment came, however, when Henry’s exhaustion and melancholy over years of thwarted effort to gain his freedom to marry me were etched deep in the lines on his face. In truth, at times, I had wondered why he persisted in his intent to have me – to marry me. Was it not possible with the very next obstacle thrown in his path - one more denial from the Pope - he might just give up, even though we loved one another? But then! Sweet Jesu! The pregnancy I had suspected became certain, and while we dined together alone one evening, I tenderly turned his tired face to mine, and in a voice thick with emotion, told him, simple and plain. At first, he was devoid of expression, and I held my breath, fearing he had already determined to abandon me and our hopeless suit. But then his face crumpled, and he had clung to me, weeping into my shoulder. I held my strong and powerful King and felt his shoulders heave with quiet sobs, overcome with relief and joy at the news he so desperately wanted: had waited an eternity to hear.

  The next day and those that followed were imbued with the exhilaration of an expected prince.

  In late January, then, urged on by the great blessing the Almighty had bestowed upon us, His Grace the King had taken decisive action by designating Dr Thomas Cranmer, our staunch supporter and friend, as his choice for the vacant position of Archbishop of Canterbury. This step placed in Cranmer’s capable hands the task of acquiring licenses necessary for our very secret marriage. So in the dark pre-dawn of 25 January 1533, Henry and I were wed in the northern tower of Whitehall Palace. While snow softly cloaked London’s rooftops, we had stood in the fire-lit chamber with only the fewest witnesses, looked into each other’s eyes and, prompted by the Reverend Rowland Lee, stated our vows to remain together ‘til death us depart’.

  And thus did I find myself impervious to all previous misgivings. No less powerful a man than the King of England had promised, even before God, to become my sworn protector.

  Pregnant, married at last, with a husband who doted on me?Life could not be more blissful. More secure.

  Here were now three highly competent men operating from the leading positions of power in Henry’s Council, all of them motivated to present His Highness as the ultimate determiner of all matters, political and theological, pertaining to his realm. His word would thus be supreme, and the dependency on the Church of Rome and those decisions previously considered the prerogative of Pope Clement VII conclusively broken.

  I observed with satisfaction the culmination of what had been a long and arduous campaign to gain Clement’s agreement to annul Henry’s marriage to Katherine of Aragon. Despite many setbacks, a combination of brilliant logic, practiced crusading and, ultimately, sheer force of will, had brought us to the present status: Henry firmly in control, and me a married woman, expecting a fully legitimate prince, heir to the throne of England.

  Before me strode the ingenious lawyer Thomas Cromwell, who, by demonstrating cunning and dedication to the King’s service, now held several illustrious titles including Master of the Jewels and Chancellor of the Exchequer. Beside him walked Thomas Cranmer, Henry’s personal nominee as the new Archbishop of Canterbury, and - of no lesser stature - His Grace’s recently installed Lord Chancellor, Thomas Audley. They, along with Henry, would appear before the House, make their case and subsequently, following negotiation, payments, and politicking would confidently await an acknowledgement from Rome on Cranmer’s appointment to the highest clerical office in the land.

  Undeniably, the tactics this trio had devised to gain victory were worthy of the master manipulator and Florentine statesman Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli himself. We had heard much of Machiavelli and the crafty principles he espoused. Cromwell was an enthusiast of Machiavelli, and for that matter, all things Italian; especially the barbed offensives so aptly utilized by the powerful families who ruled the principal city-states. And of course, Henry had long been an admirer of the great Lorenzo de Medici and a student of the humanism flourishing in Florence. I was aware that the Florentine principles of leadership were exacting a great influence on Henry’s newfound determination to grasp and direct his destiny.

  Once formally sanctioned by the Church in Rome, it was intended that Cranmer would immediately use his newly appointed authority to exercise the conviction that the King of England was now Supreme Authority of the Church in England and that his previously held jurisdiction was no longer the privilege of the Pope. The premier directive? To officially pronounce Henry’s long marriage to Katherine of Aragon null and void, and let the Pope be damned!

  With that act of defiance, we would be sure to hear the bell toll for the Church of Rome in England.

  Until Dr Cranmer’s new position was confirmed, which would then allow him to create the necessary official documents for certification of our marriage, I was obliged to keep my two ‘secrets’, albeit there were a few in my closest circle who did know the truth … that I was the wife of the King - his new Queen - and I carried his child. Oh, how difficult it was to remain cir
cumspect when I wanted to shout the news from the Palace towers!

  I resigned myself to maintaining the privacy of my condition, but at least felt able to share the joy with my family. My mother and my sister Mary proved great sources of comfort and advice as I became accustomed to life as a pregnant woman. It proved helpful, being able to discuss the peculiarities and subtleties of what I experienced as the early days of sickness began to wane, and other cravings took precedence. Particularly I delighted in being included in that special clan of women who smiled knowingly when pregnancy was discussed.

  My queasiness did subside, and in its place, I found I had little tolerance for meats but had a great urge to eat fruit, especially apples. I delighted in how my belly had become firm and had begun to swell as the babe within me grew and flourished.

  Admittedly there were times when my resolve to remain discreet faltered. Rapturous over my new and treasured position as the King’s pregnant wife, and simply itching for some jovial mischief, one wintry and bleak February afternoon I mingled with the usual groups of courtiers clustered, talking and passing time in the Presence Chamber. While conversing with Thomas Wyatt and the newly married Anne Gainsford Zouche I’d first looked artfully about to assess the crowd within earshot, then, during a lull in our discussion, had selected an apple from a porcelain bowlful which sat upon the sideboard before calling loudly and playfully, “These apples look delicious, don’t you think, Thomas? It is quite strange because, of late, I find I have an insatiable hankering to eat apples such as I have never experienced before.”

  I waited for my words to register, and then widened my eyes in mock disbelief. “The King tells me it must be a sign that I am pregnant. But I have told him I think he certainly must be wrong …!”

  Then I laughed loudly, thinking this little scene terribly humorous, prompting heads to turn and everyone within range of hearing to stare. Gratified with the reaction thus generated, I stood, gathered my skirt with a flourish and swept coquettishly from the room, leaving all in my wake wondering what had just taken place.

  Not that Henry, either, could contain our joyful secret entirely. He was giddy with unbridled elation at being a new husband and father-to-be. And although no official royal announcement had yet been made concerning our matrimony or my condition, he became less and less concerned with guarding the news. And how rightfully he deserved to proclaim the reasons for his exuberance for, I thought, no man had ever shown such patience, such loyalty, such dedication to any woman as did my Henry to me.

  To provide him with just the smallest demonstration of my gratitude and devotion, I planned an elegant banquet in his honour, which was to be held in my beautiful new apartments in Whitehall on 24 February; the Feast of St Mathias. I invited all of the great personages of the court, and personally attended to every detail, as was my wont, to ensure the room looked its grandest. With fine arras lining the walls, masses of glowing gold plate on display, and spectacular dishes presented in elaborate style, my position and wealth were now evident to all. The ladies whom I had assembled as members of my household were all present, gaily bedecked, looking stunning, and in high humour. On that evening, Henry had chosen to partake of aqua vitae, or as its distillers called it - uisge beatha - the wickedly potent spirit produced by Scottish monks. He quickly became flush with the drink, jesting and flirting madly with me and my ravishing companions. I found his boisterous, ribald jokes and silly levity to be completely endearing, thinking how much he deserved an evening of release after the tensions he had endured. At one point he gave me a staged wink so noticeable that anyone in view would have wondered what was to come, then moved close - much too close - to the very proper Dowager Duchess of Norfolk before blurting loudly, with a noticeable slurring of the tongue, “Your Ladyship! Doth you not think that Madame the Marquess, seated right here next to me, has an exceptionally fine dowry and a rich marriage portion as we can all see from her luxurious apartment?”

  He gesticulated wildly with his arms to indicate the scope of my possessions, nearly knocking the goblets from the table. “Does that not make her an excellent marriage prospect, hey?” Then, as I had done just a few days prior, he exploded in raucous laughter at his drink-fueled sense of comedy. The Duchess, stony-faced, leaned as far back in her seat as was possible in an attempt to escape Henry’s liquored breath while those observing tittered behind their hands. Watching my beloved sway while he roared with amusement, I couldn’t help but enjoy my hearty chuckle.

  The celebration did not conclude till early the morning next. From the room littered with the debris of gaiety, I saw the King off. Henry Norreys, his Groom of the Stool, had his arm firmly about the shoulders of His Majesty as he guided him, staggering amiably, toward his chambers. I suspected I would not see Henry at all on the morrow since there was little doubt he would remain abed till he could recover from the effects of the uisge. Smiling happily as I took myself to bed, I reflected on the entertaining moments of the evening, and mostly on what an irresistible drunk my husband had been.

  Maggie Wyatt, Anne Zouche, Nan Saville and I sat at a polished table in the well-appointed Queen’s Presence Chamber at Whitehall. Sipping small ale, piles of letters and personal references strewn before us, we reviewed the lists of maids and ladies who had been proposed to make up my retinue: potential appointees to the household of the Queen. Glancing up from a sheet of parchment, Maggie looked at me inquiringly. “How well do you know Lady Cobham, Anne?”

  “I know her scarcely. I have met her on several occasions but can’t say I have ever had a conversation of any depth with her. Do you know her, Maggie? How is her temperament? I daresay I am not keen on having those unknown to me as a part of my close personal circle. But then, I am not permitted to make strictly my own selections.” Eyeing the stacks of letters from noble families all imploring for a position for a daughter or niece, I added, “His Grace the King owes many a favour, and I conveniently provide a solution by taking daughters of those so favoured into my household.” I paused then, sniffing, “… even though it is of considerable concern to have someone unfamiliar serving in such proximity.”

  Indeed, I believed I was well justified in feeling irritated by this requirement. With a sharp stab of anguish, I remembered the incident of my stolen love letters. I recalled, as if it had happened only yesterday, my panic at the discovery and resulting despair which flooded me when I’d realized that someone – a spy; a secret enemy within my closest personal space! – had stolen the locked casket which concealed the letters which I had carefully kept together, and out of sight, over the years. I believed the miscreant was a maid employed to serve me in my privy chambers. She was recommended by my Uncle Norfolk’s wife, but at the time I was unaware of the extent of Elizabeth Howard, Lady Norfolk’s animosity toward me. So I fell into the Duchess’s vicious trap and naively exposed my greatest treasure to an individual who had been hired by a detractor to steal evidence of Henry’s love for me. They were intimate and immensely personal: gorgeous letters full of the romantic expression of a man deeply in love - missives composed by Henry throughout the beginning years of our courtship, mostly while we were apart, I having been at Hever while Henry remained at court. Every scratch of the quill, each splotch of ink smeared by his big hand had drawn me closer to him. He had revealed his wit using clever wordplay, and his bawdy, waggish self when he described a beautiful gown he had had made for me – one that he longed to see me in – and out of! Mostly, I ached to see once again those sweet and wistful drawings of a small heart, etched around my initials at the close of an especially endearing letter. I pored over them often, running my fingers over his writing, knowing he had meant them for my eyes only. And then, in a trice, they were gone, never to be returned or seen by me again. My heart broke every time I thought of it.

  I was pulled back to the business at hand as Maggie shrugged, “I too, know her only superficially even though she is sister-in-law to my brother Thomas … or was when Thom
as was married to that little scandal, Elizabeth Brooke. But the few times I have been in her company, she seemed quiet. Or perhaps simply exhausted, seeing as she has seven children!”

  “That I cannot even imagine,” I rejoined, wryly patting my stomach. “I am happy to be working on just one.”

  Anne smiled indulgently at me. My dear, close friends were treating me with such loving care. Then, narrowing her eyes and peering again at the list, she questioned, “And what of Mistress Seymour? Do either of you know much of her? She has been at court off and on for years since she served Katherine yet still I have never talked to her about anything of consequence.”

  I could not resist the temptation to be waspish about a woman of questionable allegiance, for whom I cared little anyway. Arching one groomed brow, I sneered “Why, is that not simply characteristic of Mistress Seymour? And the reason is that she appears to hold naught in that empty little head of hers which is of any importance …”

  Hearing myself, I ruefully observed that my pregnancy had somehow stripped away a goodly layer of the discernment needed to avoid saying whatever came to my mind, no matter how cutting. But I didn’t care so I added smugly, “Forsooth, ladies, her intelligence mirrors her looks - quite common!”

  Anne and Maggie looked at each other and pressed their lips tightly in an attempt to suppress their laughter. Apparently they found my unchecked outbursts entertaining.

  “WELL … Am I wrong?” I demanded with mock severity, my probing glance shifting between the two. “Speak out - what do you both think of her?”

  “You are by no means in the wrong, Anne,” Maggie hastily allowed. “She is quiet and dull as a tiny titmouse. She will offer no hardship as a member of your household because she will provide no opinions, and no one will even notice her.”