by G Lawrence
“But she makes her bed more uncomfortable than it has to be, Your Majesty,” said Cromwell. “Has she not always? She could have retired to a convent in honour when all this began, but she refused. Now, she will not eat or drink unless she sees what goes into her food, and only leaves her room to hear Mass in the gallery. She surrounds herself with the few loyal servants she has left and refuses to see her steward or anyone else.” Cromwell snorted. “Her papist addiction to bodily suffering holds her prisoner, madam, not the King. She wears her odorous hair shirt and fasts hard and heavy, proclaiming all she does is for God, when in fact her suffering is made for spite. She would make it seem as though the King is doing this to her, rather than the truth… that she inflicts suffering upon herself.”
Cromwell smoothed his black doublet. “Chapuys is the only one left at liberty who still speaks for Katherine. Everyone else is sworn to uphold you, madam, or they are in the Tower, like Fisher and More.”
“Chapuys believes his position protects him,” I said. “Perhaps he is right. If the King became angry enough to arrest him, the Emperor would finally have the incentive he requires to invade. It is clear his aunt and her misery are not enough to stir him into action. I think Chapuys wants to goad the King into doing something… something Charles of Spain could not ignore.”
“I had the same thought.”
Cromwell sat back, accepting a goblet of wine from Nan Gainsford and offering a charming smile in return. She blushed, even though she was no stranger to the wiles of men. Cromwell had a way about him. He was not an attractive man, but he possessed that indefinable quality we name charisma. He drew people to him. So often he was still and quiet as a mouse lingering at the edges of its hole, waiting for a chance to scamper over the floors. But the still waters of his surface ran deep. There was mystery in Cromwell, and all who engaged with him wanted to know his secrets. He was an alluring man.
“I intercepted one of the ambassador’s letters some time ago, and he was not complimentary about me.” Cromwell reached inside his doublet and took out a length of parchment. I unrolled it and read. He was right. It was not flattering.
“He is a man of wit, who understands affairs of state,” I read aloud. “Cromwell’s words are good, but his deeds are bad, and his will and intent incomparably worse.” I lifted my eyebrows and Cromwell smiled.
“So, you see, Majesty, we are not as good friends as many would believe.”
“But you will continue to court him?”
Cromwell inclined his head. “For the sake of England, Majesty.”
“Let me know if you hear of anything that could be used to remove him. A different ambassador might be a better friend to us, or at least less devoted to Katherine.”
“I will see what can be done.” He tucked the letter into his doublet. “I do have one other matter to raise with you, Majesty,” he said. “If you pity Vaughan, he has lately put a request to me on behalf of his wife.”
“Which is?”
“She is a talented silk-woman, in need of employment. Vaughan hoped, in view of the services he has done in the past, you might take her into your household. She has made many costumes for my entertainments over the years, and is a skilled woman.”
Cromwell’s lavish entertainments were becoming legendary. He spared no expense and anyone who had attended one spoke in hushed tones of reverence about it… much to Henry’s annoyance.
“And her character?”
“As virtuous as the Virgin,” he attested. “She is a good woman, Majesty, dedicated to the new learning and reform, much like her husband.”
“Good,” I said. “I cannot have any in my household who would be questioned about their morals. Bring some of her work to me and I will see what might be done.” I paused. “Poor Vaughan deserves some reward.”
As Cromwell went to leave, he turned back. “May I say, Majesty, if I may be so bold, you have a courageous spirit, one I much admire.”
I swallowed as the hidden woman within me screamed. She wanted to be set loose, to run the corridors of court, wailing for her child. I thrust her back, chained her to the floor of my soul, and smiled.
“Thank you, Cromwell,” I said.
*
Two days later, I was back at Henry’s side. But I was not the only one. Joanna Dingley seemed to be falling from favour, although Henry still paid court to her, but there was a new toy for my fickle husband. Mary Perrot, the woman who had been his mistress some years ago, and had a son by him, was at court and Henry was pursuing her.
“The parrot was once one of Katherine’s ladies,” Jane whispered as we watched Henry flounce about his whore. He looked faintly ridiculous; an aging man playing the fresh gallant, simpering at her jests and all but dribbling at her feet.
My loyal ladies had taken to calling Mary Perrot, the parrot, as a jest, but there was something of the exotic birds of the New World about her. She was always overdressed, for one thing, and far too talkative for another.
“They call her the Imperial Lady, sister, for she sympathises with Katherine and her daughter.”
I watched the overdone parrot as she laughed at one of Henry’s jests. Her giggle went through me like a knife. It was a tinkling sound, which ended in a breathy sigh, like the noise impish sprites might make when up to mischief. She sounded like a child. To me, the noise was irritating, but Henry and other men clearly found it attractive. What fools men can be to the wiles of women! Whenever the parrot saw me watching, she would put her hand on his arm, or his coat, seeking to demonstrate that my husband was her property. She might as well have gone all the way and pissed on Henry like a bitch marking her territory. At least that would have been honest.
The parrot was witty, young and pretty, all qualities Henry was attracted to. She was also related to me by marriage, as one of her cousins had married into the Ormonde line, and she claimed kinship with the Dukes of Norfolk, through her great-grandfather. It was said that her husband cared more for deer than for his wife, which gave Henry ample opportunity to pursue the pasty parrot whilst her husband was chasing other game.
I had learned, too, about her son, John. Widely rumoured to be the King’s bastard, although Henry had never acknowledged him, he was being educated at St David’s in Pembrokeshire, Wales. He was said to much resemble Henry, both in physical appearance and character. Mary Perrot was proud of her son, and talked of him endlessly at court.
As for my husband… Henry must have thought misery had made me blind, deaf and dumb, for he made no effort to hide his flirtation. In the dark days inside my chamber, he had attempted to console me, but now Henry seemed to forget our shared sorrow as easily as he might forget what robe he had worn to bed. Perhaps this show of favour to another woman was also about demonstrating his displeasure. There was a cold streak of spite in my husband. I had disappointed him. I would be punished.
Sorrow can be like that. I had been told to bury mine, as Henry had his. But sorrow is a worm. Through layers of sticky repression it will creep, rising to the wet surface, and from there working ill. In not acknowledging sorrow we force it underground, but that which has been buried undead may not die. It finds a way out, and transforms. In Henry it had become malice. In me, emptiness.
I despised him, but I was also afraid. If other women stole his attention, they might lace his mind with the plots of my foes. The parrot had once been one of Katherine’s ladies. If I allowed this wench to steal my husband away, what harm would she do? In the darkness of her bedchamber, what might she whisper in his ear? How would she paint me in his eyes? What might she convince him to do? Set Lady Mary into the succession ahead of my daughter? I needed no more enemies, and certainly not one so close to Henry. I had to draw him back to me.
This would be no easy task. I was not the merry mistress anymore. I buried my heart. I swallowed my soul. About court I presented myself as fresh, wild and happy to entice my husband to me. But a part of me had died with my son.
At night, when only close friends atten
ded on me, I went to the elaborate silver cradle Henry had had made for our son, and I wept. My hands shook as I stroked the silver Tudor roses and precious stones encrusted onto its shimmering surface. My fingers curled about the gold-embroidered bedding, pulling it to me, as if I could absorb my son into my soul.
Bitter tears streaked down my face by night, but as dawn emerged, I had to pretend all was well. I donned my mask and became another woman. Henry did not want me languishing in grief. I had to resume my position as Queen, and more than that, I had to push myself into the costume of the mistress once more to win him from the arms of his lovers.
Once, long ago, I had said to Henry that I would be merry to at last be able to discard the cowl of the mistress and wear only the garb of a wife and queen. But that cloak I had thought discarded had never left. Like an enchanted garment, embedded with a spell of magic, it came back. Only Henry could banish it.
But he would not. I could not be just Henry’s wife. Anne, the mistress, still lived. She had to. It was not Henry’s Queen who would strike aside her opponents.
How I wished George or Mary were there to console me! But Mary was still in the country and George was in France, bargaining to postpone the meeting with François and Marguerite. I felt alone. Were it not for Purkoy and my ladies, I might have relinquished all hope.
“How goes the questioning of Fisher and More?” I asked Cranmer, turning my eyes from Henry and his whore. I sipped from my goblet and then swiftly took another. Wine allowed me to forget my troubles… for a while.
“Slowly, and with great pains, Majesty.” The good man sighed. “More tells Cromwell he had never understood that God had established the primacy of the Pope until he read the King’s book on the subject, the Assertio Septem Sacramentorium. And then, More says, as he is led by the wisdom of His Majesty himself, he cannot allow the King to be upheld as Supreme Head of the Church.”
“More uses the King against himself,” I noted. “A foolish play, and one not likely to win his liberty.”
“Indeed not, Majesty. More says he told the King at the time of publishing that he should not engage in arguments about papal authority, as if there ever came a time when he was involved in a dispute with the Pope, his words might come back to haunt him. More says he investigated further, spurred on by the King’s theories, and found that His Majesty was indeed correct and the authority of Rome had been created in ancient times to prevent schisms in the faith. He said the King had set him on this path personally, and he had upheld His Majesty’s philosophy, using it to govern his decisions. He protests he made his position on the Great Matter clear to His Majesty, and was accepted as Lord Chancellor in the full knowledge that he was opposed to the annulment. He said the King had sworn many times that he would never seek to force him to act against his conscience, and therefore he could not swear the oath. ” Cranmer paused. “But he did say he supported the King’s right to choose his wife and to appeal to the General Council about his excommunication.”
“How gracious of him,” I said dryly, making Cranmer smile.
“He said to Cromwell that the King had no authority to create laws which acted against the See of Rome,” Cranmer went on. “And could not diminish the authority of the Pope.”
“He treads close to treason,” I noted. “The King will not hear his authority questioned. Not now.”
“His Majesty has all but lost patience with More,” said Cranmer. “And Fisher too, for he protests much the same.” Cranmer sipped from his cup. “Fisher is, however, ill, and his quarters in the Tower make him sicker still. He continues to protest a layman may not govern the Church, and that His Majesty is splitting the faith asunder, but his protests grow as weak as his body.”
“But still they both maintain they did not support Elizabeth Barton?”
“They do. They say they met her and advised her not to speak against the King.”
“Cromwell thinks they encouraged her.”
“And he may well be correct, my lady, but to a lawyer, such as More, encouragement could mean, or not mean, many things.” Cranmer drew a long finger about the rim of his silver goblet. “Fisher says that the late Archbishop Warham supported Barton, and he saw no reason to contradict him, since Warham was a man of learning and wisdom. He also protests that he had no need to inform the King about Barton’s visions, as the lady herself told the King of them before her execution. More, too, says the same. He claims the King introduced him to Barton, and he counselled His Majesty to be cautious about her prophesies, as More was sceptical about their honesty, but at the time the King was too enthused to hear him. They say that Barton was in communication with the Dowager, and offered support to Lady Mary too.”
“My husband talks of going to France,” I said. “Perhaps leaving me as regent.”
“He worries you are not hale enough yet for the visit, Majesty.”
Again, that look I had seen in so many eyes; that wary sympathy. No one spoke of my baby, but everyone knew of him. The silence about my child was conspicuous, tangible. It hung about me… another cloak I would never discard, woven from strands of sadness and wrenching, wretched grief.
“If I am made regent, I shall take care of his rebellious bastard,” I said, almost to myself.
Mary had been on my mind. I would not allow her to threaten Elizabeth. Her refusal to swear the oath of succession angered Henry, but it imperilled Elizabeth and me. It was an outright denial of my position as Queen, and my daughter’s rights and future. If Katherine was the Queen, as Mary so vehemently claimed, I was nothing more than a whore and Elizabeth was a bastard. It struck at the foundations of my security to have Mary at liberty, and I was determined she would not remain so if I was left as regent.
“What would you do, Majesty? Any harm that came to the Lady Mary would be dangerous for relations with Spain.”
“King Charles cares nothing for his aunt or cousin,” I said. “He is true to politics, not piety. If I am left in control of England, I will ensure Mary swears the oath, and if not, she may face the same fate as More and Fisher.” Cranmer looked shocked and I smiled. “I do not mean I would see her dead, Eminence, but sometimes, when dealing with troublemakers, we must demonstrate might.”
“Of course, Majesty,” he said, relieved. “The same is true of Fisher and More. The King would never truly have them executed.”
“Would he not?” I asked, glancing at my husband. A ring of pretty ladies fluttered about him, as though he were a fine cock and they his adoring hens.
“I think you misjudge your King, Cranmer,” I said, taking a large swallow of wine. “For there are times I think him capable of anything.”
*
“I did as you asked, Majesty,” said my father. I had been mesmerized by the scene outside my window, and jumped sharply as he spoke.
Summer was spread over England, thick as butter. Golden, glowing light stretched radiant fingers, illuminating fresh green leaves and sweet flowers. At dusk, the skies became pearl and shell, reflecting all colours; pinks, blues… ochre, emerald and lapis. In daylight, the sun was a haze of amber above a wide, warm sky of shimmering magic. The wings of birds were made into a cascade of colour; bright blue glimmering through black feathers, purple lights glinting on sharp, dark bills.
“And failed in your mission?” I patted a cushion, indicating for him to sit. Embroidered with my initials entwined with Henry’s, it was a work of art. Along with our sewing for the poor, my ladies and I were making enough cushion covers, bed hangings, embroidered cloth and wall hangings to smother all the palaces of England. My mark was everywhere. Perhaps the pernicious parrot was not alone in attempting to establish her territory.
“Not without trying,” he said, sitting down.
“Of that I have no doubt,” I replied. “But I know your quarry. She is a tricky hind.”
I had sent my father to Lady Mary to try to convince her to relinquish her title and swear the oath of succession. I sent him with promises, from both Henry and me, saying s
he would be well treated if she agreed. I held small hope. By now, Mary would have heard whispers that I was not to have a child. Whatever she made of the odd silence about my son, she would have understood this could only bode well for her. But the shadows of the Tower were long. Mary also knew More and Fisher had refused the oath, like her, and even if once she had been a princess, the possibility of arrest and execution remained.
“How did she seem?”
“Ill,” said my father, taking his hat from his head and placing it on the seat. Twin feathers, one black and one white, clasped against the rim with a golden pin, shook gently as he set it down. “She looked aged, and her skin was grey.”
“Perhaps she has her mother’s constitution.”
“Or her father’s.”
I frowned. Henry had suffered lately with his legs. His veins were swollen and at times they became inflamed, leading to pain. His men had been commanded to keep this quiet, but if my father, who despite being Lord Privy Seal was no longer a part of Henry’s intimate circle, knew, clearly knowledge of Henry’s infirmities was leaking into court.
