Tudor Queen, Tudor Crown

by Jennifer Peter Woods

  We must wait, my lord. She would say.

  Wait for what?

  Wait for this matter with the Queen to be resolved.

  But then came the day she had to capitulate. She chose her time well. The King’s Great Matter, as the people dubbed his divorce, had reached an impasse. The Cardinal sent from Rome had proved useless. He refused to give Henry the decision he desired. Anne had known then that she had to play her final card. She needed to give Henry something to sweeten his palate, to firm his resolve and to harden his heart completely against Katherine of Aragon.

  What else could she offer him but her body? So she gave in, offering him what he wanted, pined for and lusted after. She opened her arms and her legs to him, yielding him her greatest gift. It had been painful and rushed. His passions were too well stoked. But for every time after, he took care of her, showing her how to delight in her own body as well as his.

  She wasn’t his wife when she laid with him that first time, nor the time after. Anne knew she had played the part of the whore, but contrary to all beliefs, she was not without a conscience. She knew Katherine of Aragon was not guilty. The only thing that Queen was guilty of was growing old and portly.

  Twisting her hands in the sheets below her, Anne shivered. Over the years, Henry had professed over and over that he loved her with all his soul. The trouble was she knew how callous Henry could be. She had known it even before she caught his eye. She knew how fickle, how changeable and how heartless he was. She had seen it.

  It had been years ago, when Queen Katherine lost her last child. Then, newly returned from France Anne had been one of Katherine’s many ladies.

  Over the years, the queen had miscarried of child after child. It was no great secret. They had all heard of good Queen Katherine and her many trials. The woman was a paragon of virtue. After shedding her tears and uttering her prayers, she would always return to her good work for the people. But Anne had seen the Queen’s heartache.

  That day, Anne had been closeted in the small chamber that held the queen’s privy stool. She had been ushered there by the other women after she threatened to cast up the contents of her stomach. The sight of all those linens drenched in blood made Anne’s head spin. She had heaved and heaved.

  Katherine had miscarried of yet another prince. The babe had been stillborn, lifeless.

  The blood that accompanied the sudden coming of the dead Prince seemed to cover everything, soaking the piles and piles of linen thrown over every surface. The midwives bustled, working around the suffering Katherine.

  Trying hard, Anne fought her stomach. She never heard the approaching steps of the king, and when she noticed his presence, it was too late. She was trapped. Curious, she had opened the door just wide enough to see.

  There was only the two of them, king and queen, husband and wife. But Henry had no soft words of comfort for his long-suffering Katherine. Instead, he riled and cursed at her. His voice thundered. It was loud enough to fill the hallways but he cared not who heard.

  Dead! Dead! Dead! Another one dead! You have failed me for the last time Katherine!

  Queen Katherine’s sobs could be heard as her husband carried on with his explosion.

  Perhaps ‘tis God’s will that we have no son. Her quiet words only made her husband angrier.

  God? He said mockingly. It has naught to do with God. Why is it that Bessie Blount and Mary Boleyn can bear me sons but not you? Have you considered it? He sneered, it seems that if I choose it every woman in England can give me a son! Every woman but you!

  That may be so, the Queen said evenly, but none of them will ever be your legitimate issue. There had been vehemence in Katherine’s voice. Over the years, as the king indulged himself with his mistresses, the queen had always looked the other way. When the women bore her husband sons, she smiled, standing by as he bestowed upon them titles and lands worthy of their lineage. She had smiled too when the children were brought to court. She had a kind word for each of them, kind words and a kind smile. But the way her husband had hurled his infidelities at her in that moment had been too much for her to bear. The external mask of civility that they were so careful of preserving betwixt them was broken. Bitterness swelled, choking them.

  Silence reigned for an eternal moment as husband and wife regarded each other, lovers turned enemies in a silent duel. Eventually, it was Katherine who broke the silence first. She was the one to offer the first conciliatory words.

  Henry. Please. She held out her hand to him. I would bring forth again and again until I have corrected, she swallowed past the stricture in her throat, my failings.

  The woman was the daughter of a King. She was a Spanish Princess. She was everything regal and she had always held her head high no matter the circumstances and the persons before her. Only to Henry did she bow. Only to Henry did she concede defeat, only to Henry did she show her most vulnerable self.

  Katherine had been weak from her loss. She was pale and her face puffed from crying. If Henry had been a man with a heart, he would have taken his wife into his embrace and comforted her. But he did not. Anne spied it all. The tears of his Queen did nothing to move him. And it was then that Anne understood. Henry was now beginning to regard his wife of twenty years as his adversary. She was the reason he had no son. She was the reason he had no heir.

  We have Mary. Katherine reminded her husband.

  We have no need for girls. Having a girl on the throne would only bring bloodshed! He closed his eyes as he uttered the words. He had spoken as if he was speaking to an imbecile, his words enunciated, his voice raised.

  Mary-

  He cut her off. Henry had no desire to hear anymore from his Queen.

  Enough. We take our leave of you. He said coldly. Recover well. At his command the doors opened to allow him passage, he flicked his hand at his waiting squires. Send in the physicians.

  The Queen’s last words were weak, feeble, Henry, please-

  He left. Without looking back. Later, a year to the day Anne witnessed the scene, came the day the king found out that the queen was no longer bleeding. It had been Anne who whispered the truth to her uncle Norfolk and he, in turn, who placed the words in the mouth of Henry’ trusted servants.

  Henry’s wrath had known no bounds. He shut himself in his private chambers for three full days, refusing everyone entry. When he emerged, Anne knew the king was done with Katherine. The Queen was no longer useful to her husband.

  Useful. A queen had to prove herself useful.

  Anne now pondered her own circumstances. In all her years by the king’s side, she had seen and encouraged Henry’s ruthlessness toward Katherine, but now she was the one in strife. She had failed to give him a Prince. Instead, she had given him another girl and her perch on the throne was quaking in its fundaments.

  Elizabeth. She had given Henry Elizabeth just like Katherine had given him Mary. The two Queens were one daughter apiece and Anne knew she had to secure her daughter’s place in the world. Mary was Elizabeth’s senior. If anything, Henry would be inclined to place his eldest daughter in the line of succession above Elizabeth. Mary had survived childhood, she was a young woman now and her father, despite Katherine, loved her well.

  Anne tightened her fists. Nay, that would not do at all. Her Elizabeth had to be given precedence. The people hated her. If left to them, every man, woman and child would choose Katherine’s Mary above Anne’s Elizabeth.

  She needed to give Henry a son. She needed to charm him, to keep his eyes fixed and his heart captivated. Already, his eyes were wandering. She had seen him looking at Jane Seymour.

  Jane Seymour was an insipid creature, with half Anne’s wit and no charm. She was pale, colorless and meek. She is nothing like me, thought Anne.

  Anne firmed her purpose. She needed to remind Henry of her vivacity. She needed to bring vibrant color and passion back into his life. She needs to rekindle his desire and keep him by her side. She needed to keep him occupied. For above all else, Anne understood full we
ll what she had done. She had changed Henry. She had encouraged him to become all that he was. She had shown him the way, urged him to abandon his scruples, taught him to believe and follow nothing but his own will.

  You are the divine leader of this realm. She had uttered the words to him many a time, urging him to take his England towards reformation. Do not cede your powers to Rome or any man. She said while she caressed his face. You are everything, God’s Ordained and His Chosen One. Do not let any other power on Earth deny you your God given right to rule. And he had listened, installing her on the throne beside him. There would be no will but his. He had prevailed against all odds to rid himself of Katherine, replacing her with another woman, and he could do it again. He could just as easily replace Anne with Jane Seymour or any other woman who should catch his fancy.

  She had set a dangerous precedence. She had opened the way, levered and flung the doors wide for Henry to follow his chosen path. He could do whatever he pleased. There were no constraints on him now. His power was absolute.

  She twisted her hands until they were white.

  There was no time for regret. She could never go back and undo what she had done. Henry was what he was and she would endure it. She would fight, cajole and lure Henry back to her side. His lust for her was strong and she would stir and force him return to her. She had no other choice.

  As soon as she was able, she would leave this bed and begin her quest. She would pour all her energy into securing her as well as her daughter’s future. She was young yet. She was only four and twenty. Soon she would give Henry a son. She would do everything she set out to do. She would defy them all; her naysayers, her detractors and her enemies, she would show them all.

  Anne Boleyn was going to be the happiest queen England had ever seen.

  KAT ASHLEY

  Aged thirty-one

  Her eyes, hawk-like, fixed upon the Lady Mary. The girl had been stripped of her titles and consigned to oblivion by her father’s new Act of Succession. As such, the Lady Mary needed to learn her place.

  It was Kat’s task to engender into the little madam the proper etiquette and behavior. For her cousin Anne’s sake, as well the fortune of their entire clan, Mary Tudor had to be brought to heel.

  The little madam was as hard as nails. She had learned to be so. Her time away from her mother and the continuing saga of her father’s defection had hit her hard. But she held her head high, giving them nothing. Pride, Kat supposed, was all that the girl had left. All the same, England was changing and the Lady Mary needed to live her life according to the new order.

  Stubbornly, many were still clinging to the old ways, refusing to recognize Princess Elizabeth as the heir. But the king was swift to cut them down. The Queen forced his hand, urging him to send those refusing to swear allegiance to the new Act of Succession to the block, and because of it many heads had rolled.

  Adroitly, the queen was using the chance to rid herself of Mary’s most ardent supporters. She wanted the lords who were a threat to her gone. Hence, she was tireless in her efforts, persuading the king to act. She had claimed many victims, chief amongst them Lord Chancellor Thomas More and Bishop Fisher.

  So much for a king’s friendship, thought Kat. The king had counted them amongst his closest friends. Now they were all dead. Their heads were loped off and hung high on the ramparts for all to see. Kat crossed herself, offering up a prayer for the men. They were good men, living and dying by their conscience, unlike the Duke of Suffolk, who had no conscience to speak of.

  The Duke was apt at saving his own skin. He was always watching and plotting, but he was above all very skilled at tending the king’s hubris. Suffolk had been the king’s childhood friend when Henry was a prince, not the heir, and second in all things to his brother Arthur. As the times and circumstances changed, Suffolk remained staunchly by Henry’s side and he had risen high, very high indeed.

  A lover of women, Suffolk had also taken wife after wife, counting amongst them the King’s own sister. There was no doubt that the king favored Suffolk well, and the duke had proved himself useful yet again to his sovereign by leading the throng making their pledge to the new Act of Succession.

  The world was changing and for those who denied it, their heads had rolled. Most, like Suffolk had great care for their necks, conscience or no. Stepping into the solar, Kat clucked her tongue, making her presence known. Immediately, those gathered around the Princess Royal’s cradle stepped back to yield her their place.

  Seated by the cradle, the Lady Mary refused to move. Her charge was to entertain the Princess, to sing to her, to read and to recite rhymes and such.

  The Queen had carefully chosen every single book, every verse and every word to be read to her daughter. Newly appointed and luxuriously fitted, Queen Anne had made Hatfield grander than any palace for the comfort of her daughter.

  Whatever the Lady Mary had my daughter must have triple the amount, be it servants, comforts, ladies or attendants, the queen decided, and her desire had been carried out to the letter.

  Kat turned her gaze on Mary. The girl read on, her eyes clear, betraying nothing. The girl had been thus ever since she arrived, haughty, reserved and unyielding, and today was no exception. She sat by the royal cot, her back ramrod straight, her person perfectly arranged. She was thin and pale and her eyes were rimmed in black.

  She placed one slim finger in the book to mark her place before turning her eyes upon Kat with great condescension. She bowed to no one and she had never once offered Kat any deference.

  But these were early days yet. Kat had her ways and she would make the girl yield.

  Lady Mary. She greeted the fallen princess.

  Mistress Ashley. Came the girl’s clipped reply.

  The others watched the exchange, their eyes sharp. On the Queen’s order, the Lady Mary was to be watched at all times when she was with the infant Princess. They fear her hate and what she might do; something heinous, they thought, she might be driven to do something heinous.

  But the Lady Mary loved her sister. The look on her face the first time she peered into the royal cradle told Kat all she needed to know. Blood was blood and Mary would never cause her sister harm. The girl despised Queen Anne but she was old enough to understand that the babe couldn’t be held accountable for the sins of her parents.

  Nonetheless, Kat had the girl watched. Her orders were not to befriend Mary but to teach the girl her place. As such, Kat had been showing Mary just how she was to be distinguished from her sister Elizabeth. Everyone was to address the infant as Princess and no other title when in Mary’s hearing. Queen Anne was to be extolled and praised and Catholicism denounced. Everything that Katherine of Aragon was, everything that reminded the realm and Mary of that bygone era was to be repudiated and erased. Further, the Lady Mary was to be shown no privileges. All the ladies, servants and squires at Hatfield were encouraged to watch and report on her. All her letters were intercepted and checked, news of her mother was to be suppressed and she was to receive no visitors.

  The Queen wanted Mary contained. She wanted Mary buried at Hatfield, isolated and completely friendless. The girl had many allies and she needed to be denied contact with them all. By keeping her close, Anne hoped to eliminate the threat Mary posed.

  By the order of the Queen, Kat wrote, sending her majesty daily reports as to the progress of Lady Mary’s containment and reformation.

  Together, they would break her, slowly and painfully.

  To all of this, the king said nothing. He had no words for his daughter of old. That was just what Anne wanted. She needed everyone to forget about Mary, she wanted the girl erased from the realm’s memories and where better to bury the girl than here at Hatfield?

  Starting from today, the Lady Mary’s lessons would begin in earnest. A new plan, hatched by Kat and the Queen to teach Mary her place was about to start. The exercises would be small but important. Kat spoke-

  Lady Mary, the Queen arrives anon. She smiled. You are to lead
the greeting party.

  Mary paled. Be sure to bow to the Queen and offer her due reverence.

  So it began. Mary had to be forced to bow and bow again until she accepted the truth that her old place in England was no more. She would learn it, live it and die by it.

  1536

  MARY AGED TWENTY

  The Queen has miscarried of her savior. Chapuys’ words written in his heavy hand stared back at Mary.

  The Queen was dead. Anne Boleyn was dead. She wanted to laugh but nothing came. She was numb. Elizabeth had lost her mother. Mary had lost her mother. They were both without their mothers now.

  Mary had fought Anne Boleyn hard. She had fought her father hard. She had refused again and again to submit herself to the Act of Succession. She would not denounce her mother and refute what was hers by right. Her father and his wife had tried, without success, time after time, to bring her to heel, to no avail.

  Mary had been fool enough to imagine that one day her father would see sense, that he would come back to his proper family and restore all to its proper place. To that end, day after day, she begged God for the kernel of goodness in him to flourish, for him to see the light and regain his senses so that he could right all the wrongs he had done.

  Prayer. The only thing she could do was pray, for she was powerless in the face of her father’s dictates. It was the only comfort she had left.

  Hidden away as she was in Hatfield, the whispers against Anne Boleyn reached her ears late. When they came, Mary had been stunned but otherwise occupied. Her own mother, Katherine, was grievously ill. Her father had deposited his former Queen, the Dowager Princess of Wales to fester in her sadness and ill health at Kimbolten, far, far away from her daughter.

  Melancholy, Chapuys the Spanish Ambassador had gotten word to Mary. Her Majesty suffers greatly from the malady. But her faith is strong.

  Her mother’s faith was strong and Mary had always tried to emulate her mother and her great example. But any hope Mary had of seeing her family restored died, when talk of the king’s new found interest in Jane Seymour came, carried on the wind.