by G Lawrence
“Thank you for informing me of your decision,” I continued, struggling to remain calm. “I will see to it that Jane’s maid and her dogs are also removed, to relieve any financial burden on Your Majesty.”
I had to be careful. Exploding at Henry had only led to him abusing me. He did not like to be called out on his flaws. This situation was mortifying for him. He wanted everyone to believe he was a paragon of virtue. Jane’s little scene had upset that fantasy.
I could not fight for Jane.
“Let us hope that some time in the country will calm Lady Rochford’s spirits and allow her to see the benefits of reserved behaviour,” I said, resuming my embroidery. “She is often too keen to speak before she thinks.”
Henry grunted. “Yes,” he said, relieved that I was not going to start shouting. “And… how are things with you, sweetheart?” he asked carefully, abruptly changing subject. “You and your ladies are keen to decorate all parts of the palaces. Everywhere I go I see your beautiful creations. Is this something new you are working on?”
He was so eager to talk to me that I felt a great piece of ice in my chest melt. Warmth flooded through misery and I clung to it as a woman may to a splinter of wood upon a rough sea. I thought of the ornament of the ship I had sent to him when we were courting. I thought then that Henry was the ship that would keep me safe, I thought. Perhaps this is a wish that may never come true. If Henry was the ship on which I, the maiden, travelled, he was also the sea, the tumbling, heaving waves, the oncoming storm.
“It is our badges,” I said, holding the dark green cloth out. “Surrounded by the honeysuckle and the acorn, symbols of love and fertility.”
“We will make more time to see each other, Anne,” said Henry suddenly and gruffly. “There has been so much happening these past few months. It sometimes seems you and I are apart, but you must never think that. There is no one in the world for me but you.”
They were just words. But I cherished them.
*
We heard that month that Pope Clement had died. His papal throne was passed to a new man, Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, who became Pope Paul III. Usually deliberations on the appointment of a new Pope took months, but this was passed in just one day. Forty years a Cardinal, and at the ripe age of sixty-eight, Pope Paul III swiftly took his seat amongst whispers of bribery, for none could see how else he had gained his throne so quickly.
On the surface, this was in our favour. Clement had been of no use to anyone, and Paul had, at least in passing, seemed more temperate than his predecessor towards Henry. Pope Paul let it be known that he was anxious to resolve Henry’s argument with Rome and bring England back to the Catholic fold. He was also no friend to the Emperor, which brought us hope.
George and my father were much in company with Henry, and since I had accepted Jane’s hasty removal from court, Henry and I were reconciled. George did not seem to care Jane was gone. If anything, he was relieved.
“Pope Paul appears more useful than his predecessor,” I said to them.
“Could any man be less useful?” George asked, making Henry laugh.
“Will you make peace with Rome, my lord?” I asked my sniggering husband.
“On my terms alone will I consider it,” he said. “If he ratifies my annulment, accepts you as my wife, and Elizabeth as our heir, until our son is born, I will make peace.” He breathed in, extending his growing gut and emphasising the rather overlarge codpiece he was wearing.
Although popular at court, and generally nothing out of the ordinary when worn by other men, Henry’s codpieces were becoming ridiculous. Unlike those worn by other men, which were discreet if noticeable, Henry’s were getting larger by the day. He had started to wear jewels upon them too, whose sparkling lights drew the eye to his groin. I was certain this was another sign of his increasing fears about his abilities.
“It pleases me to hear this,” I said, taking Purkoy into my lap. He gazed up with his huge, liquid eyes. There was a hunger within me to take the innocence I saw there into my heart, to shield me against life’s oncoming storms. If only such a miracle was possible, I thought. Purkoy glanced up, as though he had heard me. My faithful hound always seemed to know my thoughts.
“Did you think I would allow Rome to have peace on any other terms?” Henry smiled; that boyish expression I had once adored on his face. “No, Anne,” he said. “They will bow to us, not we to them.”
Henry sent word for his ambassador in Rome to seek a meeting with the new Pope to discuss terms. With this soon to occur, Rome would not move forwards with any of Clement’s notions about rousing Europe to invade, or reconfirming his bull of excommunication. Henry was sleeping better than he had for many months, as it seemed sure the Emperor would not be enticed to invade, and Henry sent word that he would grant the papacy a second chance.
I have no doubt when Henry’s man in Rome opened that letter he found other ways to word it. From Rome’s perspective, they were offering Henry a second chance. Henry thought just the opposite.
Chapter Nine
Greenwich Palace
September 1534
Reaching my apartments later that day, I strolled in accompanied by a merry mood. I felt light. The appointment of the new Pope will bring nothing but good, I thought as Purkoy danced beneath my feet, infected by my happiness.
As I turned into my rooms, talking brightly to Nan Cobham about entertaining Henry and his men that night, I found my ladies clustered about the hearth, deep in whispered conversation.
“What has you all so captivated?” I asked, only to stare in shock as they turned as one, abruptly ceased their chattering, and every one of them blushed crimson. I gazed into a sea of red. “What is it?” I asked, handing my cloak to Nan Gainsford.
“Majesty,” said Margaret Lee, nee Wyatt, stepping forwards. “Your sister has returned to court. She is waiting in the next room with your mother and father.”
“At last,” I said with a trill of happiness. “Finally she is here.” I walked to the chamber Margaret had indicated and felt a hand on my sleeve. I turned to find Margaret’s worried face staring at me. “What is it?” I asked. “Is my sister unwell?”
“Majesty…” Margaret’s voice failed her. It surfaced as a whimper. “She is with child.”
I stared blankly at my friend, at a complete loss for words. “That… cannot be,” I stammered eventually.
“You will see for yourself, Majesty,” said Margaret, trying not to meet my eyes. “There can be no doubt of her condition.”
I pushed through the door to find myself in the centre of a conspicuous silence. My father and mother were at the fireplace, their faces made of flint. I looked at them and they dipped to bow, but as I followed the path on which their eyes wended, I stopped in my tracks.
Mary was near the window. She heard me enter and dropped to an awkward curtsey. There was a gable hood of black silk on her head, rimmed with a pretty pearl-grey ribbon. Her gown was blue, trimmed with silver. For a moment, I was struck by her beauty, but as my eyes travelled down, I stared in horror. With the light from the windows beaming upon her, my sister might have been an angel… were it not for the bold, large, bump sticking out from her gown.
The door behind me opened, but I did not turn. I was transfixed… I had become a statue. And as my brother entered, I felt my heart tumble from my chest, slipping past my shoes, past the floor, and dropping to the bowels of Hell.
I lost my baby, I thought. And my own sister comes to parade this before me?
I stood staring at her with my mouth open. Mary’s face was bright white. She looked like the moon. Perhaps such a thought was fitting, for there was something of that being’s ancient loneliness in her at that moment.
“What,” I said slowly. “Is that?”
George came to a sudden stop behind me. From the corner of my eyes, I saw his widen as his face lost all colour. Our mother’s expression was much the same; drawn and pale. But Father was a blood moon to Mary’s full. He was
struggling to contain himself.
“That,” he spat. “Is evidence of your sister’s whoring, Your Majesty.”
“I am no whore!” Mary almost shouted, twisting on her heel to face him.
George raced to intercept our father as he lunged at Mary in a sudden, violent rage. “You are a whore!” our father shouted. “You have always been a whore!”
“Once, you found that useful, Father,” she murmured. Mary swallowed and took a step back as she saw his face. Our mother stepped between them, taking hold of Mary as my sister swayed, pale and afraid.
“Touch her not, Elizabeth,” Father hissed through gritted teeth, trying to shake his son off. “Let me go, George!”
Reluctantly, George released him. “It is not becoming to beat the sister of the Queen, Father. Nor does it add to your honour to threaten a pregnant woman.”
“Pah!” said our father, spitting flecks of white spittle from his mouth as he advanced on his eldest. His hands flew in her face. “The Queen asked you a question, girl. What is that?”
“It is not a ‘that’,” she said quietly. “It is the lawful child of a good man; my husband.”
“Your husband?” The words burst from my mouth. “Pray tell me, sister, when was the Second Coming announced, that the dead may walk once more amongst us? When did my good brother William Carey return from the grave? I am most sorry to have missed such a momentous occasion.”
“Anne!” said my mother, never one to entertain sacrilegious talk at the best of times.
Mary steeled herself. “I was married, some months ago, to a good man, sister, and have known nothing but love and peace since.”
“A good man? A good man?” our father exclaimed, marching on Mary as though he meant to stamp on her like a bug. George jumped again and pulled him back. Mary stared at me with fear and pleading in her eyes.
She wanted me to help her. But all I could see was her heavy, swollen belly.
I hated her for it.
All my pain, my anguish, all the misery of losing my child crashed inside me, grinding, making a paste of my heart, until all that was left was fury.
“You are married?” I said coldly.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said. “You forget, sister, both my position, and yours.”
My family stared in amazement. I had never proclaimed my right, as Queen, to be head of the Boleyns. Yet now I used it. Father’s face lit up with approval at my unyielding tone. Perhaps he had expected me to defend my sister, as I had when he assaulted her in France. He was delighted to find it was not so. My mother looked at me with surprise, but unlike my father’s face, there was no approval of my harsh tone in her expression.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Mary obediently replied, adding a curtsey for good measure.
“Who?”
“His name is William Stafford, Your Majesty.”
“Stafford? Of Buckingham?” It was a faint hope that Mary might have chosen kin of the dead Duke for her husband. And as she spoke the name, suspicion rose in me. Was it possible that that hungry-eyed young pup who had dogged her steps in Calais was the father of this child?
“Of… Cottered, Your Majesty,” she said unwillingly, confirming my fears.
“Who is his father?” shouted my own father.
“Sir Humphrey Stafford, Father.”
“The son of an attainted traitor,” he sneered. “What have you done, girl? Married a no one, with no money or connections, without the approval of your father, family or your sister, the Queen of England? Do you have no wit in that stupid little head? Do you know what ruin and disgrace you have brought upon us? You turn up with some lump in your belly and expect us to accept you? It will not be. That thing is not my grandchild and you are not my daughter!”
Mary burst into tears. She fell to her knees and put her head to the floor.
“So, this is why you did not come,” I said. “This is what you were doing in the country… Not seeing your children or tending to lands, but spreading your legs for some oafish bastard in the hay ticks? This is what you were doing when I asked you to come after I lost my son?”
She wept into the rushes and then looked up. “Sister,” she said, holding out her hands. “I have been alone for so many years. I set aside my happiness to further the cause of your ascension to the throne. William and I met in Calais. He is part of the King’s guard there. He admired me and courted me nobly, with honour. He wanted to ask for my hand, but I knew you would not allow it. But I loved him. I loved him so much that we married in secret. And although he is poor and without title, though he be but a third son of only a Sir, he loves me with all his heart, as I love him.”
Mary’s hands shook as she held them out, beseeching me to show mercy. “You, sister… my Queen… you, too, married for love, you too defied all who stood against you. And be they king or pauper, love is love; something given by God, as unchanging as the skies and seas. I could not live without William nor he without me.”
She fell to weeping once more. I drew myself up and felt coldness fall, tumbling down my spine, infesting my blood, festering, rank and rotten in my heart. Never in all my life had I felt so jealous and full of hate. I could have ripped her apart.
“Get up,” I said.
She wobbled as she stood. Her huge belly, more than seven months pregnant as she must have been, made her unsteady on her feet. I saw that, and in a flash my hand lashed out and slapped her hard across her pretty face.
She cried out as one of my rings caught her skin. Her beautiful eyes swam with tears as she saw the depths of my rage.
My mother was staring at me as though she didn’t know who I was. Only my father was smirking. George looked amazed.
“How dare you compare your marriage to mine?” I shouted. “I married the greatest King on this earth and gave this land a princess of royal birth, with the support and approval of my family and God, whereas you have lain with some dirty soldier!”
“I thought you might be pleased for me, Majesty,” she said, her eyes flashing with anger as well as fear. “To find happiness after so long. Much as you married for love, sister, I have done the same.”
“I am head of this household now, by virtue of title!” I announced. “You should have consulted me, and if not me, then certainly our father!”
“I knew you would not approve…”
“You were right,” I said. “And now you have come to plead for us to accept this child? It will never be, Mary.” My lip curled. “How are we to know you are truly wed, and this child is not a bastard? You have lied often, and well, apparently in these past few months.”
“I am married,” she insisted.
“Where are the banns?” I demanded. “Where is the priest?”
“I am married,” she bleated.
Her eyes went to George, hoping to find some hint of sympathy. She was not likely to find it. George might stop our father beating her, but his pride was deep and delicate. He knew this illicit marriage would affect us. People already said I was too low-born to be a queen, and my family were naught but merchants. This would confirm that in every hateful mind. George turned his face from her.
“We have only your word to confirm it,” I said. “And what is that worth?” I shook my head. “Lifted your skirts for him behind the barracks did you, Mary? I hope he paid you well up front, for we could not expect that your flabby, well-used quinny could have granted much pleasure. You are a whore. You have brought shame on all of us, and especially on my reputation as Queen. You would have done better to die than to ever bring this disgusting belly before us!”
“Anne!” my mother gasped.
I rounded on her. “She has brought shame and disgrace on us, all of us!” I shouted.
I glowered at my trembling sister. Her eyes were alight with pain, and I cared not. What would this scandal do to my reputation? What would Henry do when he found out? The King of England, if Mary was to be believed, was now brother-in-law to one of his lesser
and most distant, poor cousins. The disgrace would be unimaginable.
But it was not that which set my heart aflame with lust for vengeance. It was Mary’s belly. It was her child. It was her standing there in possession of all I wanted and could not have. I was mad with jealousy and rotten, foetid terror.
“You and your husband, if that is indeed what he is, are banished forever from this court,” I said. “You will never return here, nor to the house of my father. You disgust me. Get out of my sight.”
She gaped, her hand on her flaming cheek, bleeding and scratched where my ring had torn her skin. She looked so young, like an innocent child beaten on a whim. Just a little girl, lost and alone.
