by G Lawrence
“I am sure you did your best,” I said. “Is there any news from our friend in Antwerp?” Some time ago I had asked my father to get word to William Tyndale that Henry was after him. Henry wanted this reformer in custody, but I would not allow that to happen.
“Our friend received the warning, and gave thanks for it,” my father said. “And I have further news. He was asked to write a treatise condemning your marriage, and refused. Officially he said he would meddle no more in this affair, but I believe he has too much respect for you to speak against you or, by association, the King.”
I glanced at the New Testament open on the table in my rooms. The inscription was dedicated to me. A gift from Tyndale who, even if he would not openly support my marriage as he believed Henry’s first was valid, did support me as Queen. It might have seemed a contradiction, but I was willing to accept any support offered.
“Is there news of the revised translation?”
“There is. It might be ready soon, and he has been working on Genesis also.”
The second edition of Tyndale’s New Testament was being widely discussed, albeit carefully, about court. Reformers were keen to get their hands on a copy, for it was rumoured to be a masterpiece.
But even as Tyndale toiled, Antwerp was becoming dangerous for free-thinking men. The Emperor, shamed by his inability to control the rise of Lutheranism in his northern territories, was pushing a crushing foot down upon the Low Countries. Increasingly violent penalties were being introduced, designed to destroy reformers of every clan and creed. The possession of vernacular Bibles, or any tome upholding the works of Luther or the theologians of Louvain, an unorthodox and increasingly popular tribe of philosophers, were now punishable by imprisonment, torture or death. Meetings of ‘heretics’ to discuss the Scriptures and any incident of iconoclasm were likewise punishable by death. “The men beheaded by the sword, the women buried alive in a ditch, the relapsed burned,” so read the ordinance of the Emperor.
Those willing to inform on friends and neighbours were richly rewarded with shares in spoils confiscated from these men of faith. Officials had been warned that clemency or laxity would be harshly punished, and the Inquisition was granted the right to torture, confiscate property, and execute heretics without right of appeal. Printers who published inflammatory works could face branding with a cross, burned deep into their skin, and rubbed in with ashes, so its fire would never die. Judges, if so moved, could order that accused men were also to lose hands, feet, or eyes, as a horrific addition to branding. But printers continued to print, and writers to write. Their pens and presses would not be silenced by unrighteous souls.
Dark days these were, but there were still people of faith willing to risk their lives for the benefit of their eternal souls.
Tyndale had taken refuge in the English House, and there he had some protection. He also had another fortification; his belief that Henry’s first marriage was valid. Little as this pleased me, I thought it would keep him safe. The Emperor was not likely to turn on one who had so publicly, to Henry’s intense mortification, supported Katherine.
But in sending the gift of his New Testament into my hands, Tyndale had made his motives clear to me. I was the Queen he wanted on this throne.
“I want a copy when it comes out,” I said.
“If one is not immediately forwarded to you here by our friend, Majesty.” My father smiled. “George sent word too, he should be home tomorrow.”
I felt a breath escape my lips. “I long to see him.”
“He is eager to see you, too,” he said. “I informed him about…” My father nodded towards my belly and I felt my heart stagger. “So you would not have to explain.”
I cast my eyes away, blinking back tears. Such unusual tact and understanding from my father was almost more than I could bear. Kindness, when one is accustomed to cruelty, is shocking and unnerving.
“It will be good to have him home,” I said, pushing back the darkness which strove to claim me.
The human mind is a place of many shadowed corners, where much may be stowed away. It is necessary, is it not? For those who suffer abuse, hardship, sorrow and grief, to hide memories is to be able to continue on, and face each new day. It is not a cure, just a remedy. In truth, I did not know how much harm I was doing to myself.
“Did George say how his mission went?”
“He convinced François to delay the meeting,” said my father. “But more than that I do not know.”
When my father departed, I sat at the window, staring at nothing. The golden light of the morning had departed and the world had become grey, swathed in mist. When George had left, I had been on the cusp of a new life. With a babe in my belly and a daughter in the nursery, I was secure. Now he was to return to England and would find a different world. My son was lost, my daughter’s rights were being questioned, and Henry was busy forgetting his sorrow between the legs of other women.
As I stared at the window, a flash of my son’s face washed before me. His tiny eyelids, closed so he would never see the horror nor the beauty of the world; his skin tinged with blue; small hands curled about tiny palms.
I looked away.
It made no matter. He followed me. He was in every window and every mirror; in the reflection of a pond and in my dreams. Did my son haunt me? Unable to find rest, bereft of the solace of God, did he come to me to find comfort?
I had longed for my brother to return, but suddenly I did not. If I could prevent George from witnessing my grief, then perhaps it was not real, and all that had happened had been but a terrible dream.
Chapter Five
Greenwich Palace
August – September 1534
“I cannot express my sorrow,” my brother said, putting his warm hand into mine. “All I can do is be here, if you need me.”
“You are the only one who will speak of my boy,” I choked. “Mother and Father ignore the subject, as do my ladies. I endure their stark sympathy. They look at me with eyes that entice me to speak, and faces that turn from me if I do. They think speaking of it will make my sorrow worse, or will cause me to slide into that realm of suspicion and sorrow I inhabited when my babe died, but this silence is almost more than I can bear.”
“It was the same for Jane and me when we lost children,” George said. “People know not what to say, so they say nothing. It is better than everyone telling you all will be well, I assure you.”
“I need to speak of him, George,” I murmured, uncomfortably wondering if I, like all the others, had gone silent on my brother when he had suffered. Guilt assailed me, but George, if he noticed or had been wounded in the past by this, did not allow that to affect him now. My brother was a man of many virtues. He suffered from pride and had a reckless way with money and women, but he had a true heart, devoid of spite.
“I know,” he said. “So speak of him to me.”
I unleashed my heart. I told my brother of my strange fantasies when my son was born dead, of the accusations I had thrown at my women. I spoke of my dreams. At one stage he smiled, and stopped me.
“You omit something,” he said as I spoke of a dream I had had of Elizabeth and my son playing together at Eltham. “You make childhood into a happy realm of sunshine and laughter, but that is not the way it would have been. You must include some sibling squabbles between Elizabeth and her brother.”
“Henry,” I interjected. “I would have named him for his father.”
“Your son, Henry,” he continued. “They must fight, sometimes, in these dreams, Anne, or they are simply not real children.”
I laughed despite myself, and George beamed. “You always know how to cheer me,” I said.
“You have a talent for that yourself, sister spirit.”
“Thank you for listening.”
The release was greater than I could have imagined, and I was more grateful than I could say. Something in the dark chamber of my mind had snapped open. Hidden horrors could no more rise unbidden, or sneak out
to thrash me. The ancients said that knowing the true name of a being granted power; in speaking of sorrow, perhaps I had named it, and taken back its influence over my heart. It would always be there, but George had granted me the strength to face it.
“I am an ambassador.” He grinned. “I am good at listening. Do you not know we are all spies?”
“How was France?”
He shrugged. “François agreed to postpone until April, but he remains no happier with Henry. He blames him for ruining all his good work with the Pope. He harbours resentment.” George breathed in deeply. “He thinks Henry made him look a fool.”
“The slight was never intended.”
“To kings, all slights, real or imagined are intended. They are fragile creatures.”
*
“I regret, Majesty, my time has all but been taken up with other commissions.”
“Since that is good for your career, Master Holbein, do not grieve.” I smiled. “All I wish for is a sketch.”
My smile was sad. I had called the painter to me not for a royal portrait, but so I might have something to remember my son. If I could hold him no more, and could not visit his grave, I would take an impression of myself at this time, and remember him through it.
“Just an hour of your time,” I said.
“For you, madam, I would give all my time,” said the good man as he took a seat.
The sketch did not take long, and when Holbein gave it to me, he apologised for it, even though I thought it accurate. It showed me in sad repose, dressed in my nightgown with a cap upon my head, staring thoughtfully ahead. A slight double chin was present, as I had asked for honest depiction and no flattery. The fat that had accumulated in bearing my child had not yet diminished. My breasts sagged slightly, and twisting silver lines, where my skin had stretched, roamed over my belly and thighs. About my middle there was a roll of spare flesh. Henry did not like this, and I had started fasting, terrified that his revulsion at my form, a form which was, as I told myself, only natural after carrying a child, might send him only more frequently to his mistresses.
I was fighting a battle against myself. To keep my husband I had to maintain the figure and allurements of the young damsel he had fallen for, but in order to hold my position I had to become a mother, which does not come without toll on the body. I was being silently commanded to become a perfect being; a wife and mother who was also a slim, nubile maid. It was an ideal that could not be achieved.
It was also unfair. I had never expected Henry to remain the young lad he had once been. I did not love him less for the rolls of fat that formed at his belly, for the grossly swollen veins on his legs, or for the second chin, rapidly giving way to a third, under his first. He, too, was not the Adonis he had been on the day of his coronation when first I saw him.
The only times I thought ill of him for his form were when I was hurt and angry at his betrayals. It is common, when one is wounded, to find a way to strike at the person who harms us, if only in thought. When I loved him, I saw not the body he dwelled in, but the soul within. That is love, when it is true. We love not the vessel, but the heart and soul bound inside.
As I gazed on the sketch, however, I noted something that was not honest. Holbein had begun colouring it, and I asked why he had left the suggestion of fair hair.
“It is a delicate portrait, Majesty,” he said. “You are in a state of undress… I did not want anyone supposing it was you, if it were found.”
I smiled. My raven hair was famous. It was true that if any saw this portrait they would not think it was me because of the hair. “I thank you for your thoughtfulness,” I said. “But I do not intend to show it to anyone. It is for me.”
Holbein also designed goblets and jewellery for me. A silver cup I owned was his work, emblazoned with my arms and the emblem of the white falcon. But Holbein was not the only artist I patronised. Although I had always been interested in them, I felt drawn to art, music and poetry more in the aftermath of sorrow. Perhaps it is like that for many of us; we seek beauty elsewhere when we find none in the barren days of our lives.
A few years ago, I had recommended Lucas Hornebolte to Henry when the position of court painter had fallen vacant. Hornebolte, a native of Ghent, held reformist sympathies, and was a refugee from his native land. He had been long in England and had commissions from numerous noble houses, many of them my enemies. In truth, I thought Holbein the more talented of the two, but since Hornebolte had been linked to my foes, I thought it might be valuable to have him on my side.
Hornebolte was particularly skilled at manuscript illumination. I loved decorated books, and owned many. Some were poor, cheap copies I had bought with my, then meagre, allowance in France and Mechelen, and others I had purchased at great costs as Marquess and Queen. They were as precious to me as any jewel, and many were in fact more costly.
I turned to my books. I looked on the words I had inscribed in them as a youth, and found myself smiling at my zealous naivety. “The time will come,” I had written in Latin in one under a picture of the Second Coming and the Resurrection of the Dead, never knowing that one day I would stand at the forefront of almighty change in England, bringing the light of God to its people. That was how I wished people could see me, but my reputation was at odds with such hallowed thought.
I hid in books, in art and music, seeking the peace my soul required. My musicians played, and I did too, taking to my decorated clavichord or virginals to lose myself in dipping notes and lingering melodies. I showed court musicians the book containing sheets of music I had collected in my time abroad and in England. Some of these works, with a strong emphasis on the wonder of motherhood, were played in my rooms. I listened to prayers envisioned as coming from the mouth of Biblical Hannah, or Anna, when her son was born, and thought on my son and my daughter.
By day and by night I was at court with Henry, but when I could, I went to my rooms. I could never be alone, my women were always with me, but in my books, in contemplation of art, I could feel as though I were alone for a while. At night, when the palace was still, I called for musicians to play sweet songs of hope and joy. I tried to remind myself that all was not lost, that there was still hope.
In such ways did I mourn my child.
Chapter Six
Greenwich Palace
August – September 1534
“Sometimes, when I regard your train of ladies, niece, I think I am mistakenly called Queen,” I mentioned to Margaret Douglas as her ladies trooped out of the room. For a moment the girl looked abashed, but as she saw my grin, her shoulders sagged.
“Do you think them too many, Your Majesty?” she asked. “I told my uncle that I do not need so many women to attend me, but he insists.”
“He will see you honoured, for he loves you dearly,” I said, touching her fur-lined sleeve. “I was jesting, Lady Douglas. I am pleased the King honours you, for you are also in my heart.”
It was true enough. Margaret Douglas was a winning creature and I enjoyed her company. Friend to Lady Mary she may be, but she was kind, gracious and warm to me. Margaret did not place herself on either side. She liked us both, she had said, and only hoped one day we might be friends.
A sweet wish… if an unlikely one. Lady Mary had been unwell of late, and in her illness, courtiers visited her and people who lived near Hatfield turned out to cheer her. I did not want my precocious daughter, who was just starting to understand the world, to hear people who should have shouted acclaim for her, screaming instead for her bastard sister.
But Margaret I liked. Her mother and I were in communication, exchanging letters so I could reassure her Margaret was being treated well. And that she was. Henry was besotted with his niece. He saw her as the perfect embodiment of all that was pure and good, and held her up as a paragon of chastity and good behaviour. Henry hoped some of this sparkling virtue would rub off his Magrett’s shoulders and fall upon his headstrong bastard.
Wanting to honour his niece, Henry had granted
her a grand train of ladies. It was fitting for her station, although technically Margaret was not a princess. She might be considered one in England, being the daughter of Margaret Tudor, but in Scotland she was but the King’s half-sister, born of noble, not royal, blood. But Henry was never going to allow any man to think Margaret was anything less than royalty. I did not mind Henry’s love for the girl, for I loved her too. Although she was traditional in her faith, Margaret at times approached me for guidance, and listened to my ideas.
“I will always remain Catholic rather than Lutheran, Majesty,” she said, glancing at me nervously after we had discussed the worship of idols. I preferred to discuss rather than lecture on issues of faith. Henry believed in shouting until everyone agreed with him, but I believed in gentle persuasion, even though many people would have snorted contemptuously at such a notion from me.
“Of course, what do you think I am?” I smiled. “People like to say that I am a heretic, or Lutheran, but it is not so. I believe in reform, but reform of the Catholic Church to make it better, not to do away with it.” I eyed her carefully. “You will find, my lady, many who disagree with reform will paint those who do with a sullied brush. You are a clever young woman, but you must open your eyes. Reformers are not the demons you have been told they are.”
