The Lady in the Tower

by Виктория Холт

  Now she saw a chance of revenge—this petty Mary Talbot who had had the misfortune to marry a man who was deeply in love with someone else.

  But she had a point. That was the frightening aspect. One always thought of precedents when such occasions arose. Not so long ago Richard III had declared himself to be King because of his brother's pre-contract with Eleanor Butler before marrying Elizabeth Woodville, thus rendering illegitimate those two little Princes who had died so mysteriously in the Tower. If this pre-contract with Henry Percy was proved to be valid, my offspring with the King could be declared to be a bastard.

  There was only one thing to do: I must lay the matter before Henry without more delay.

  I went to him. His face lit up at the sight of me. Then he saw that I was disturbed.

  I said: “Norfolk has just handed this to me.”

  He took it, read it and cried: “My God, this must not be.”

  He looked at me questioningly.

  I said: “There was no signed contract of marriage. You know full well that when I was at Court I knew Northumberland and that there was talk of marriage between ourselves. It never went further than that. It was you who arranged with Wolsey to separate us.”

  “Thank God,” he cried. “Then there was no pre-contract.”

  “Once we thought that we would marry, which we might well have done if it had not been prevented.”

  “I will give this to Cromwell at once. We cannot let it pass. Norfolk knows of it… and Shrewsbury, of course.”

  “You think this will prevent our marriage.”

  Henry smiled. “Sweetheart, nothing on God's earth is going to prevent our marriage. That rogue Cromwell will sort it out.”

  And Cromwell did.

  Percy was summoned to appear before the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Privy Council.

  I knew that I could rely on him. He had loved me deeply; I think he had never forgotten me. He would know that I wished to marry the King, that I must marry the King after all that had passed between us. He was loyal as I had known he would be. He admitted that he and I had known each other at Court and there had been an attraction between us, but there had never been a pre-contract.

  Whether he had been threatened by Cromwell, I did not know, but I liked to believe that he said what he did out of love for me.

  So that was another defeat for my enemies. The King—as he was determined to—believed Northumberland was speaking the truth, and the rest of the Council must also.

  That little matter was settled and need not bother us further.

  Henry was relieved that the question of my alliance with Henry Percy had been satisfactorily settled and he could talk of little else but our coming visit to France.

  François had been a good friend to us throughout the troubled negotiations of the divorce. I wondered why. Was it because he was romantic at heart? Hardly that. He wanted an alliance against the Emperor. That was the answer. But we could not afford to ignore such a powerful ally.

  François was eager for the visit, and as Henry and I should be together, and I should be traveling with him as his Queen to a man who was prepared to accept me as such, it should be a most enjoyable occasion.

  “There is one point,” said Henry. “You are merely the Lady Anne Rochford. It is not a very high rank for the exalted position you will occupy. Therefore I have decided to make a change.”

  I looked at him expectantly and he kissed me.

  “I am going to make you a peeress.”

  I felt dizzy with pleasure.

  “I have thought out the matter and it is all settled. You are to be the Marquess of Pembroke. It is a title which I much esteem because it was last borne by my uncle, Jasper Tudor. It links you with my family.”

  “Do you think that will be approved by the nobles?”

  He spoke almost haughtily. “It is my wish.” Of course I was delighted. It was a great honor. It would set me above those who had resented having to pay respect to me.

  Marquess of Pembroke! A title—and such a title—in my own right! I had clearly taken the right course.

  Henry announced that his reason for bestowing this honor was because a monarch ought to surround his throne with the worthiest of both sexes, and so, by the consent of the nobility of the kingdom (he did not add that none of them dared withhold his consent), he was creating his cousin Anne Rochford, the daughter of his well-beloved cousin the Earl of Wiltshire, to be Marquess of Pembroke. Then he added a most important point: by putting on the mantle and the coronet, he was investing the name and title to the male heirs.

  This was a precaution. If by some evil chance it should happen that my marriage to the King was prevented—although he had sworn nothing should—and I were to give birth to a child, that child could be assured of a grand title.

  It was plain that the King wished to do great honor to me and to show all that I was the most cherished being at his Court, for this was the first example of a woman's being created a peer.

  Everything seemed mellow on that lovely September morning— summery, yet with a touch of autumn in the air. Henry was seated in the Presence Chamber at Windsor Castle surrounded by many of the peers, including Norfolk, Suffolk, my father and the French ambassador.

  I had been dressed in a surcoat made of crimson velvet and lined with ermine; it had short sleeves for I was to wear the mantle over it. I wore my hair as it suited me best, loose about my shoulders, and I was led in by a company of lords and ladies, at the head of whom was Garter-king-at-arms. My cousin Mary Howard, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, carried the robe of state and the golden coronet. Slowly I approached the King, between the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex, and knelt.

  Gardiner read the Charter, and the King took the robe from Mary, which he caressingly laid about my shoulders. Then he placed the coronet on my head.

  I was ennobled. Marquess of Pembroke. It was a moment of great triumph.

  Henry presented me with another charter which ensured me £1,000 a year during my lifetime.

  I was very happy as the trumpets heralded my departure from the Presence Chamber.

  In my apartment were gifts from Henry—some exquisite miniatures, the work of his favorite painter, Holbein; these were made more valuable by the jewels in which they were set. They were beautiful and could be worn as pendants. Henry was determined that all should know of his love for me. He showered gifts on me. I now had a train-bearer and maids of honor—all noble ladies—just as though I were already the Queen. The cost of my clothes alone for the ceremony had been more than £30—all cheerfully paid for from the privy purse.

  I had nothing to fear.

  Then we were planning the journey to France.

  François had been most cordial and he delighted us both by suggesting that we marry while we were in France. This was an exciting prospect because if we did so it would proclaim to the world that the King of France was on our side. He had always shown a great deal of sympathy and understanding, and I was vain enough to suspect that it might be because of a fondness for me. He had certainly cast rather lustful eyes upon me when I was at his Court, and I imagine he thought of me with some respect because I had refused him. Therefore this coming visit was of very special importance to Henry and me, for we planned to take François's advice and then, when we returned to England, the marriage would be a fait accompli.

  So there I was at the peak of my dreams, soon to have done with this anomalous position in which I had stood so long—Queen of England.

  I was delighted for the time being with my new eminence; but soon I should be in that place to which I had aspired for so long. Perhaps I became a little haughty, assuming airs of royalty. Henry did not object to my doing so—in fact, he rather encouraged it. I felt now that I could command all…even him.

  I was preparing a wardrobe for the French visit. Velvets and silks were brought to me and I planned with the utmost pleasure.

  I was really happy during that time. I had ceased to look back nostalg
ically to the past and what might have been. There never could have been for me a more glorious future than that which confronted me now.

  There were one or two minor irritations. Henry demanded that Katharine should give up her jewels. Although as Queen of England she had been wearing them for years, they did not belong to her but were the property of the Crown. Henry said that, now God had shown him that theirs was no true marriage, the jewels must be returned.

  The fact was that he wanted me to wear them during the French visit and after my marriage they would be in my possession.

  Katharine indignantly refused to return them. She would not give up such jewels to adorn the person who was the scandal of Christendom, she declared, and whose very presence at Court brought ignominy to the Crown.

  Katharine could be very bold, and always there was the shadow of the Emperor beside her. For that reason, although she might be insulted, even the King would not dare harm her physically.

  But the Emperor was far away and the King was supreme in England and promising to be even more so than he had been before.

  He now commanded her to deliver up the jewels, and messengers were sent to collect them.

  It was wonderful to have them but I did regret that they had had to be forced from Katharine.

  Then there was the Duchess of Suffolk. As the ex-Queen of France she would renew many old acquaintances, for Henry wished her to accompany us. She had always been stubborn, and she had, of course, special privileges with the King. He always thought of her as his little sister Mary. She had married Suffolk and overcome his displeasure. And now she resolutely refused to come to France with us.

  This was, of course, because I was going. Had Katharine been in my place, Mary would have been happy to join the party.

  I did not know what I wished for—whether he should command her to come, which would have been most unpleasant for she would have been very disagreeable, I was sure, or whether he should give way and accept her refusal, which was an insult to me. In either case it was not very pleasant, but really, as I said, just a minor irritation.

  Then there was Suffolk himself. Henry was really angry with him. Because of his longstanding friendship with Henry and his close relationship to him through marriage, he had had the temerity to suggest that the idea for the trip was not a good one.

  I guessed what his comments were. Henry was taking a woman not his wife, and flaunting her as his Queen on a visit to another state. It was a mistake, even though François had sent messages expressing his pleasure.

  Henry had been furious.

  As a result Suffolk had been sent from Court—not to remain in exile but to prepare without delay for the journey. As this was going to be very costly, Suffolk was far from pleased; and his wife insisted on staying at home.

  Even though François had welcomed the plan so enthusiastically, the visit had its less pleasant side. He was to meet us at Boulogne, but none of the ladies of the French Court would accompany him.

  Of course, the important person was François.

  “We'll do better without the ladies,” said Henry, but it naturally meant there would be occasions when I could not be present.

  I had to remind myself that it was probably the first time a King had taken with him a woman who was not his wife on what must be a state visit.

  “In any case,” he added, “I would not wish to meet the Queen of France.” She was Eleanora of Austria, sister of Charles, and therefore Katharine's niece. “I'd rather meet the devil than a lady in Spanish dress,” added Henry.

  In spite of all these setbacks, plans went ahead. There was a certain amount of misgiving of which I could not fail to be aware. It was a daring thing to do to take me away with him on such an occasion before there had been a marriage ceremony. True, I was now a peeress with one of the highest titles in the land, but I was more unpopular than ever with the people.

  Nevertheless I was happy, and so was Henry. He could not bear to leave my side; he sent the company ahead to Dover so that we could be alone—or almost—together. We stayed at the house of Thomas Cheyney—always a good friend to me—and Henry insisted that there should be no fuss and we would live simply for a few days. This we did— riding together… eating alone… and living away from people…privately. I was surprised how much we both enjoyed it. Perhaps I was beginning to love him. It is difficult for a woman of my nature not to be fond of one who shows such care for her.

  Love changed Henry; he was both ardent and grateful; it made a different man of him; and I liked that man better than the mighty King; or it may be that I enjoyed seeing the mighty King reduced to a humble lover. It was difficult to think of Henry without his royalty. It was so much a part of him; and to think that he could cast it aside was very endearing.

  He said he had never been so happy in his life as during those days we spent away from the rest of the company, and what joy it gave him to contemplate that in a very short time we should be married.

  We could not live in our sylvan paradise forever. We had to go on to Dover.

  As we rode along, I noticed the looks of the people; they were more sullen than vituperative. They did not approve of the French visit—well, perhaps it was not the visit, but the fact that I was accompanying the King.

  There was plague in some of the hamlets along the southeast route. A sign, said the people. There were all sorts of omens. People had dreams. Some saw a sign in the sky—a comet perhaps. But it was more likely to have been conjured out of someone's imagination. Someone else had seen a strange creature in the sea. It looked like a fish, but it was not. It had the face of a man. What its purpose was supposed to be, I had no idea— except that it was some dire warning because of our evil ways. And all these signs meant that God was not pleased with a king who put away his wife and flaunted his concubine—even before the eyes of the King of France.

  In due course we embarked for Calais. We had a fair crossing in spite of the dire prophecies. A great welcome had been arranged for us. The town was en fête. The townspeople were gathered to cheer us as we went first to the church of St. Nicholas, where Mass was celebrated and we gave thanks for our safe crossing. After that we were taken to the lodgings which had been prepared for us. Henry's huge bed and furniture which we had brought with us had gone on before and were already installed.

  They were wonderful days. Henry and I were together most of the time. He took great pleasure in riding the town with me. I was cheered by the people there. How different from the reception I had from the people at home! Perhaps the news had not reached Calais or perhaps they were so glad to have us there, with our ceremonies to enliven their days, that they accepted me as part of it.

  It was wonderful to see Thomas Wyatt again. He was as handsome as ever and delighted to see me in such good spirits.

  “Do you remember those days at Hever still?” he asked me.

  “They will never be forgotten, Thomas,” I answered.

  “I rejoice in your good fortune, but it is bad fortune for me.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you are lost to me forever.”

  “Thomas,” I said seriously, “there must be no such talk.”

  “Indeed not. Look what it cost me before! I still have the tablet.”

  “Then do not let it be seen.”

  “It was such a cause for royal jealousy.”

  “Thomas, there must be no more.”

  “Anne! Queen Anne! Well, you were made for distinction.”

  “You too, Thomas.”

  “You will be remembered as the Queen. I perhaps… perhaps not… as a poet.”

  He wrote a charming poem at that time which was for me. I always remembered it.

  Forget not yet the tried intent

  Of such a truth as I have meant,

  My great travail so gladly spent

  Forget not yet.

  Forget not, oh! forget not this

  How long hath been and is

  The love that never meant amiss


  Forget not yet.

  Forget not now thine own approved

  The which so constant hath thee loved

  Whose steadfast faith hath never moved

  Forget not yet.

  It could not help but please me that a man such as Wyatt had loved me for so long. Yet I was a little fearful of him. He was very impetuous. But perhaps he had grown wiser now. He knew what it meant to offend the King.

  Henry seemed to have forgotten the affair of the tablet and the slander which Suffolk had spoken against Wyatt and me. Now that we were lovers he was satisfied. I had managed to convince him that my passion for him matched his for me; and if I was less sexually ecstatic than someone like my sister Mary, he would regard that as evidence of my finer nature.

  I was perfect to him in those days. Moreover, with François's approval we should soon be married. Then his conscience would be at ease, for Cromwell and Cranmer were working assiduously to prove that Henry's marriage to Katharine was no marriage, and soon he and I would be together without having to endure the occasional—very occasional now—twinges of that infuriating conscience.

  After a week in Calais, during which preparations were made to welcome the French King there, Henry rode off to meet François at Boulogne. It had been decided, after a great deal of consideration, that it would be better if I did not accompany him, as we had been warned that the ladies of the French Court would not be coming with François. I did not like this, but I understood it. Until I was actually married to Henry, I could not be treated on ceremonial occasions as his Queen; and like Henry, I had no wish to meet the French Queen since she was Katharine's niece. It would have made a very awkward situation; but all this would soon be at an end, for Henry had decided that our marriage should take place in a week's time; and if François was a guest at the ceremony, that would mean a great deal to us.

  Meanwhile I remained in Calais. I had devised several masques which I wanted to be considered witty, amusing and elegant, even to French tastes. Wyatt was present and he would write some of his verses, and everyone must admit that he was a poet of quality.