by G Lawrence
Many nights I awoke screaming for Henry, but he was not there. My husband was busy elsewhere, entertaining whores in his opulent bed.
As the days wore on, and Henry came less frequently, I sat in my chambers as my women tried to distract me with embroidery and books, whiling away the days until I could be churched and return to court. But my son’s face was before my eyes, whether I was asleep or awake. I saw flashes of his eyes, his hair, his skin. They leapt before me when I looked into the glass of windows, or the glossy sheen upon wine. Sometimes I heard him crying, and darted from my bed with hungry eyes, desperate to find him. But as I stood panting in the room, my feet upon the cold boards of the floor, the little herbs laced within the rush mats tickling my feet, I knew there was no one there.
Mistress Aucher said it was common, when one had gone through a time of trauma. She told my mother it would pass. I could not believe her. Each flash was too raw not to be real.
Nothing was said to Henry. My women covered it up, making excuses for my strange behaviour. They did not want Henry to think I was possessed by an evil spirit.
In the light of day, too bright, too glaring… I took to staring at the walls, imagining what my son would have been like, what he might have become. I saw him playing with Elizabeth in the long gallery at Eltham Palace. I dreamed of my children and when I awoke, grief came new and bleeding and bitter.
Grief is not of one moment.
“This must end, Anne,” said my mother one day. I glanced up with dull eyes to see she was alone. My other women had been sent to the antechamber. “What you have endured is horrific, and believe me when I say I understand, for I have lost children too. But you must return to us. You have a daughter to care for, and a realm to oversee.” Her face puckered. She knew something she did not want to tell me.
“And Henry has gone back to his whore.” My voice was flat. I cared not for him, for anyone. My heart was as empty as my womb. All I wanted was to curl up about my grief and hold it to me. It was all I had left.
She nodded. “We all experience sadness in different ways,” she said. “The King masks his behind a wall of gaiety, as you embrace yours. But you must leave your son behind, Anne, and reclaim your place at court before…”
“Before Henry forgets me.”
Again that nod. Again that worried face. My mother believed I was driving my husband away.
I turned my face to the wall. Should I care for Henry’s feelings? Should I care about his whore? Should I care that, at a time such as this, when my hopes and dreams had been shattered and my son stolen by Death, my husband sought comfort in the arms of another woman rather than offering it to me?
But something in me did care. A part of me was scared. Perhaps there was something left inside me besides hollow emptiness.
“Help me to dress,” I croaked. I stood in the centre of my chamber as my women dressed me. Like a child I allowed them to softly guide my arms and legs. Purkoy, delighted to find me standing, danced about my feet.
I tried to remember who I had been before this. I tried to set my face as she had… that woman who had mastered the world and moulded it to her liking. I tried to steal the darkness of mourning from my heart, from my eyes.
You must wear your court mask again, the shadow of my old self murmured. You must give Henry hope.
I listened to her. Ductile in her hands, I allowed her to take over. She would speak for me as I retreated into the recesses of my soul. The old Anne would take control.
I called for Henry and he came. “I am so sorry,” I said. “I thought I was careful.”
“We are young,” Henry said. “Sons will follow.”
“We are young.” My hollow voice echoed. “And sons will follow.”
“You must return to court,” he said. “And when you do, nothing will be said of this event.”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I must go back to court. I must cease to speak of our son. I must snatch my husband from the arms of his mistress. I must survive.
But even as I thought those words I knew I was leaving part of me behind. The part that sorrowed. The part that grieved… The broken one.
The broken one would remain tucked inside my soul, curled in a ball, lost in a labyrinth of perdition, with her son.
Chapter Three
Greenwich Palace
July 1534
“The Act will allow the King to tax his people in times of peace and war,” said my mother, sitting on my bed with a bowl of chicken broth and rice in her hands. Food for invalids. My mother was concerned for my health.
“And how has it been received?” I asked, stroking Purkoy who was deep in slumber, curled up in a soft ball at my side.
My mother was trying to distract me with news of Cromwell’s plans. She had brought up such matters with hesitation, but I welcomed them… I would accept anything that would stop me thinking of my dead child; anything to keep the old Anne Boleyn in charge and prevent the broken one from emerging. I had to keep her locked away, contained. If I fell apart, there was no knowing how long it would take to stick the shattered remains of me back together again.
I was but one moment from oblivion. If I allowed myself to fall, I might never stop.
“There are those for and against,” she said, wiping the spoon on a chunk of bread. “As ever.”
Cromwell wanted to make Henry rich. Although Henry’s father had left him more money than it was believed any man could spend, Henry needed more. He was a spender as much as his sire had been a hoarder, and with rumours of invasion, from hostile Spain and irritated Rome, Henry needed money for arms, ships and men.
The Subsidy Act would allow Henry to demand taxes from his subjects at any time. Previously, kings had only been permitted to raise taxes for the purpose of war, but Cromwell argued they should also be collected to maintain peace, for were the two aims not the same? Before the loss of my child, Cromwell had assured me that this money would be put to good use, much like fines extracted from the clergy before their submission. I trusted Cromwell, for he, like me, was generous to charitable causes. He provided food, vestments and coin from his London houses to the poor, and those who benefited praised him. His ideals were humanist in origin; that those blessed with riches should be generous to others who were not. He promoted the notion of relief for the poor, and support of scholars, and there our interests met. I thought him a social reformer, much as I was.
I had therefore supported this Act, and my mother, knowing this, brought me this news in an effort to cheer my battered spirits.
With this money and all that had been gathered before, Henry could support his people and defend his realm. Poor scholars with aptitude could be put through school and university, widows and orphans would be cared for, and our shores would be kept safe. This was a worthy goal.
But if this news was welcome, shortly there was more that was not. Trapped inside my lying-in chambers until I was churched, I was reliant on others for news of the outside world. My women did not want to say anything that might upset me, but when they failed me I could turn to Jane, my sister-in-law. Jane would not hold anything back. It was not in her nature. She fed from gossip and her blood ran thick with rumour. I was grateful for her honesty. It was a fragile time, and I needed to know all that was going on.
“They say Lady Mary was hysterical,” she whispered as we sewed.
I stared at the pattern of acorns and honeysuckle I was embroidering into a cushion. I had started this before I lost my son. The acorn was the symbol of new life, and honeysuckle of love. Long had honeysuckle been one of my personal emblems. None knew it, but I wove it upon my gowns to remind myself of that horrific night in France when I had been attacked. Honeysuckle had grown in the arbour where I had struggled to defend myself. As much as it was a symbol of love, it was also a personal reminder that love might be perverted… made a thing of evil. Sewn into my gowns, into cushions and bed hangings, it reminded me never to be made a victim again.
“Hyste
rical… about moving houses?” I asked, running my needle through the cloth. Jane had been regaling me with the latest exploits of Henry’s bastard. “The Lady Mary always knows how to make the worst of everything.”
“She feared riding behind the Princess as a servant, Majesty.”
“She needs to understand her place.” I sighed. “And this is why Chapuys decided to make his parade through London?”
The hapless hare, in response to Mary’s wailing, had taken it upon himself to make a gesture of support. Proclaiming he was taking a pilgrimage to Walsingham, Chapuys had gathered sixty horsemen. They were supposed to be nobles, but anyone with eyes could see they were Chapuys’ servants dressed up to pass as lords. This did not matter to the hare. He desired a spectacle, so all would see they were off to see imprisoned Katherine, drawing attention to her plight. They rode through London, apparently making for Walsingham, but it soon became clear they were heading for Kimbolton Castle, and for Katherine.
Everyone in London would know the ambassador was off to see forlorn, abandoned Katherine, and Chapuys ensured this, for they set off loudly, their numbers bulging with trumpeters and minstrels, and processed through London by a most bizarre route… which only made sense if you understood the hare wanted everyone to see them. It was confrontation Chapuys was looking for. By the second day, reports of his little pageant had reached Henry, and, understanding what Chapuys was up to, he sent Cromwell’s men after the ambassador. Stephen Vaughan, freshly returned from Antwerp, was now constantly in Cromwell’s employ and had been sent to intercept the hapless hare.
“Vaughan rode ahead to Kimbolton,” Jane continued, her emerald eyes flickering to my face, “and brought back a message from Katherine’s steward that the party were not allowed to visit.”
Steward… said Katherine’s voice in my mind. Jailer, more like.
“But the hapless hare did not listen?” I asked.
“He did not, Majesty.” Jane smiled, her needle poised in the air. “Does he ever? Chapuys rested his men and went on the next day. Another messenger was sent saying His Majesty had expressly denied permission for him to see Katherine, and it would invoke the King’s ire to attempt to do so.”
“I wonder if this was part of his scheme. The hare must have known England’s people would not like to hear that Katherine is being denied visitors.”
“Indeed,” said Jane. “Katherine sent loyal servants out to welcome Chapuys, Majesty, and they presented gifts of game and venison, along with many bottles of fine wine, begging them to make good cheer, for she would be happy to see him.”
“Naturally,” I said. “Katherine would do that. She knew if Henry continued to deny Chapuys access, she would prove that she is a prisoner.”
“They brought a fool with them,” Jane continued. “He had a padlock hanging from his hood, to make it clear that Katherine was being held captive. Chapuys reached the moat and declared he was not permitted to enter, so all of Katherine’s ladies, and the Dowager herself, hung from the windows speaking Spanish and Latin to their guests. That way, they declared, they were not flouting the King’s orders, for no one had left the house, and none entered it.”
“What more did you find out?”
“The fool led a mock assault on the castle, Majesty, pretending he intended to swim the moat and rescue them.” Jane tucked her silver needle into the cloth. “He waded in as far as his waist whilst everyone watched and laughed. He was dragged back by Katherine’s guards, but as they did so, he threw the padlock across the moat, shouting, ‘next time I bring the key!’ Chapuys’ men fell about laughing and a crowd of local people who had gathered looked on in amazement.”
“And now everyone has heard of this.”
“They have, Majesty. The whole court is speaking of it. The King is enraged.”
“Then I pity Vaughan,” I said. “For Henry’s wrath will fall on him and Cromwell.”
“Chapuys took an alternate route back to London,” said Jane. “They stopped at Walsingham, to prove that had been their true purpose all along, and ensured as many people saw on them on the way back as on their way out. Vaughan tried to explain that it was Katherine’s steward who did not allow them access.”
“But no one believed him,” I finished for Jane. “Everyone who saw that spectacle understands what Chapuys was trying to proclaim; that Katherine is a prisoner and the King her keeper.”
I frowned. It was time for me to rejoin court. Had I been at Henry’s side when this occurred I would have advised him on a better course of action. It was almost time for me to be churched, and so much the better. When I was away from this room, I might be able to pass a day without hearing the call of my son. I might be able to allow the old Anne, the one I pretended to be, to take over, for good.
I had to forget. I had to. What other choice was there? To become lost in a kingdom of shadows and wraiths? To leave the world behind?
I had not that option. I must rejoin life. I had to set sorrow and misfortune behind me and look to the future.
I would tell them I was well, and my son was of the past. It would be a lie. Each time I closed my eyes I saw him. But I would not tell. I would keep my secrets. I would bury my son deep in my heart.
Chapter Four
Greenwich Palace
July - August 1534
Two days later, on a blustery morning where clouds scampered in the skies, I presented myself at the boundaries of the palace chapel and Cranmer blessed me. He did not include the words spoken after Elizabeth’s birth that tied me to the soul of my child in life and death. Gentle Cranmer knew that according to Church doctrine, my son and I would never see each other again.
My return to court was not as it had been after Elizabeth was born. There was a quiet Mass, but no giving of alms, no feasting, no dancing. Since it was to be a secret that I had delivered a stillborn son, such events were impractical. Besides, I was in no mood to celebrate. But as soon as I was ready to receive guests, I sent for Cromwell.
“I hope you did not suffer from Chapuys’ little fiesta last month?” I asked as he took a seat. Thin bands of light from the windows spilled into the inner gloom. Particles of dust danced in them, silver against the golden light.
“Poor Vaughan endured more scolding than I, Majesty,” he said, lowering his large, stocky frame into a plush crimson seat. He gazed at me with sympathetic eyes and I waved a hand.
“Please,” I said in a strangled voice. “Do not speak of my child.”
“If you so wish, Majesty.”
“It is still too close… Too raw. When first it happened, I was lost. I cannot allow myself to go astray again.” I stared into his eyes and he blinked to see the grief hidden there. “I have to make the best of what I have,” I murmured. Those were Henry’s words, Henry’s thoughts.
“And the King needs you, madam. He has been quite lost without you.”
I was not so sure that was true, given all Jane and my mother had told me of Mary Perrot and Joanna Dingley, Henry’s whores, but I said nothing. “Has Vaughan recovered from the fire of His Majesty’s choler?”
“He is a sturdy man, Majesty. It would take more than a grand ticking off to fell such a tree.”
“Then I am glad. It was not his fault.”
“No,” said Cromwell. “Majesty, I fear I am to blame.”
“But the commands came from the King, did they not?”
“They did, but I should have advised him to allow the visit. Once the ambassador was prepared, there was no stopping him. All this has done is confirm to England’s people, and perhaps the Emperor, that Katherine is indeed a captive, as they have long supposed.”
“I thought you might have caught scent of it before it happened. Lady Rochford tells me you are often with the ambassador.”
“Someone has to preserve ties with Spain, Majesty. I play the friend to keep a line of communication open. And with the Emperor ever a threat, we must play nicely.”
“Please… do not think I doubt your motives,
my friend. I just thought it unusual that with your fine nose for subterfuge you were caught unawares.”
“My nose failed me this time, my lady,” Cromwell admitted. “Chapuys said nothing. He knew that if he did I would have tried to stop him.”
“And now England sings the ballad of Katherine’s woes.”
“Many join Chapuys in protesting she is ill-treated, Majesty,” he agreed, running a fat finger over his shaven chin. His skin had that raw look many men gain after shaving; angry pink spilling into mottled red. “Katherine claims she is a prisoner.”
“Is it not true, in some ways? She has little money of her own, no access to the property the King has confiscated. She is surrounded by people who have sworn the oath of succession, binding them to us. Truly, Katherine has few friends left.”
