by G Lawrence
His hand closed about mine and his eyes glowed with love. “Sometimes I forget to say what I feel to those I love,” he said quietly. “But those I love should never think my love has weakened or abated.”
“Do you speak of me, husband?” I asked with a smile. “I tell you to be frank, and you escape into hyperbole.”
Henry chuckled, taking me in his arms. “I love you,” he said. “Is that clear enough?”
“As I love you.”
I wondered later if the strain set upon Henry as Fitzroy fell ill was not in part to blame for his actions towards the Observants. The people of England had not reacted well to their arrests or disbandment, and Henry had faltered in the face of their disapproval.
Insecurity is more dangerous a state than we give credit for.
As his son became ill, Henry’s hard resolve returned. Fear brought anger, and Henry offered himself up to it. He knew what was best for England, and England would fall in line. Not content with arresting ringleaders and separating the Order, Henry decided to suppress it entirely. The last remaining servants, friars and monks were carted off or turned out onto the streets to find alternative employment, or become beggars. Their church was converted into a mill for the royal armoury.
Later that month a new Act of Supremacy enshrined Henry’s title of Supreme Head of the Church in law, finally cutting England’s last ties with Rome. Ecclesiastical matters were now in the hands of Henry alone. About court it was said that Englishmen were now to understand the Word of God was synonymous with that of their King.
It was simple to get the Act through Parliament. Cromwell had stuffed the Upper Chamber with lords loyal to Henry, and the Commons was full of MPs dedicated to the new order. Detractors were warned to stay away, or risk losing more than just their livelihoods. Allied in thought and deed, Parliament, the Lords and the King marched on, and all who objected tumbled to the wayside.
Cranmer, Cromwell and I rejoiced. This was the final cut required to set England loose of the shackles of Rome. Reginald Pole called Cromwell the Emissary of Satan, and Cranmer and I came under fire too, but it was done. Henry was indeed Emperor and Pope in England.
With this change, more came. Cranmer and his bishops were busy discussing which rituals of the Church would remain and which would be banned. The granting of indulgences to buy time out of purgatory was immediately brought up, since many thought it a scandal, but talks went ahead about idols, the wealth of the monasteries and charitable reform. Some went so far as to question the Order of the Garter, since their devotion was offered to St George rather than God, but Henry adored the Order, and would not allow it to be disbanded.
There were other things Henry would not allow. He believed in the Sacraments, and would not permit the transubstantiation to be brought into doubt. He believed in purgatory and limbo, despite our discussions, and upheld clerical celibacy. He was enamoured of statues, images and the grandeur of the Catholic Mass. He was, in fact, just as Catholic as Pope Paul. He just did not agree that the Pope should be the Head of the Church. Cranmer, who was a great deal starker in his religious outlook, understood he would have a hard task convincing Henry to ban many aspects of traditional religion which the Archbishop and many others considered ungodly popery.
But for all this, Henry had an inquisitive mind. He often invited my chaplains, whom he knew to be ardent reformists, to debate theological matters with him. He and I discussed much at the dinner table, or with our friends. Henry had a quite endearing habit of selecting two people he respected and getting them to take opposing points of view, so he could decide which he agreed with. Although some took this for idleness, I did not. Henry could be lazy, but when he asked others to debate, with him as the judge, it was to delve into their minds and discover new thoughts. Outside our windows at Whitehall, Henry built an open-air pulpit. Four times as many courtiers could attend events held there than could squeeze into the Chapel Royal, and Henry made good use of it. We watched from his Council Chamber as men, usually my chaplains, preached. Hugh Latimer was Henry’s particular favourite.
But it was not only at court that Cromwell and Henry made their views known. It had become apparent that the people of England did not understand all that had happened over the past years. Henry made it his mission to instruct them. Pamphlets on the corruptions of Rome and the salacious behaviour of various popes were distributed, preachers preached, and there was talk spread thick on the wonder and honour of patriotism. Believing in Henry was now the same as believing in England. Indeed, to many, they were one and the same. What is a king without his country? What is a country without a king? God requires a sovereign so His will might be done through His instrument. Henry was God’s chosen.
Henry was hailed as the noblest king that ever had reigned: the father of England; a paragon of princely goodness; the one who had made England whole again, by his wisdom, courage and virtue; the King who had set us free.
New coinage was commissioned, bearing Henry’s face in the likeness of a Roman Emperor, and a third Great Seal was created, displaying Henry’s image mounted on a great throne, with his title of Supreme Head of the Church inscribed underneath. An Imperial crown was added to the royal arms, indicating that Henry was only answerable to God, and many started to call him The New Arthur. Since Henry claimed descent from this noble King, he welcomed the title, even though it must have brought unwelcome memories of his brother, and father, to his mind.
Henry could never quite forget that his father had thought Arthur Tudor would be the saviour of England. And although it was never said aloud, Henry was desperate to prove him wrong.
Tracts, books and pamphlets flowed from Henry’s printers like water, proclaiming his glory and magnificence. Poets, playwrights and historians were called to court to blaze Henry’s new titles into art and justify them with historical fact. It became fashionable for loyal subjects to display Henry’s portrait in their houses to demonstrate their faith in him. Indeed, portraits were copied cheaply and dispersed in the streets, so Henry would look down upon his people whether they dwelled in manor house, castle or hovel.
I believed in Henry. I thought he would take us into a new time, a new era, a new world. And I was not alone. Gardiner, who had wisely abandoned his previous support for the clergy, hailed Henry as semi-divine, calling him “the image of God on earth” and as all this went on, Henry became enthralled by his own magnificence.
Conservatives were not happy. Norfolk, who paid no more attention to the Scriptures than one might to a buzzing fly, kept company with the Poles, Carewes and Courtenays. Allied to our family he might be in theory, but he had more in common with our foes. But even those mired in tradition, lost in the wish to obey Rome, did not speak too loud. They did not dare. The sound of monks wailing in the Tower, combined with the ghosts of still-living Fisher and More, silenced many.
Henry took to wearing a chain with the inscription “Plus tost morir que changer ma pensee” or I prefer to die rather than change my mind. No one could doubt his conviction. To reformers, Henry had become King David, or Solomon. I think he had transformed into a mythical figure in his own mind, too.
Amidst all this noise and colour, poetry and pageantry, more was occurring. Cromwell was appointed Master of the Rolls, becoming one of the first secular holders of the office. He made good use of the post. The Master of the Rolls was one of the highest judicial positions in England, and brought along with it the grand Rolls House on Chancery Lane. Once, this had been a Carthusian house for converted Jews, but for several hundred years it had been the seat of the Master of the Rolls. The Master was required to keep and maintain the rolls, or records, of the Court of Chancery, which held authority over all matters of equity. The Masters were usually priests, often the King’s chaplains, so it was a mark of great favour that Cromwell was offered the post.
And it kept him busy. Cromwell made good use of his new house, for he had too many servants now to keep at court or at his other London residence. Rolls House became
his own private court, filled with supplicants seeking justice or favour. Cromwell bought more houses. He was becoming a miniature king himself, with many palaces, all crammed with people waiting to plead for his favour.
But this was not the sole order of business for canny Cromwell. He wanted to root out those who might oppose us, or him, and my uncle was the first of his targets. Comments such as “it was merrier in England before the new learning came,” did not endear Norfolk to Cromwell, and my uncle was the most experienced member of Henry’s Council after Cromwell, making his conservative views therefore threatening. Suffolk, too, was a danger, but a lesser one. His reaction to our marriage had left Henry in doubt of his affection, and Suffolk was no more the force at court he had once been.
Suffolk fell in line. Although his new wife, Katherine Willoughby, and her mother, Marie de Salinas, were firmly on Katherine’s side, Suffolk understood if he was to retain Henry’s love, he would have to offer support. Norfolk was less careful. And it was a symptom of the insecurity in Henry that he listened to Norfolk at all. Captivated by his new titles and being the chosen of God, Henry was… at times. At others, he feared what might come, and failed to forge ahead.
Cromwell believed that if Norfolk were removed, more might be done, but with Henry changing his mind as often as his flat-toed shoes, Master Secretary could only wage a partial war against his foe.
Cromwell surrounded himself with intellectuals. His houses became as famous as Henry’s for discussion and philosophy. Ballads and books came from this brew, seeping into the streets so the people would know of the tyranny of Rome. Even in times of leisure, Cromwell was working for his King, although he managed to take time to hawk, one of his happiest pastimes, and put on lavish entertainments at his various homes.
At times, Henry would grunt with annoyance to hear people speak of Cromwell’s pageants. Although Cromwell often organised ones for the court, and Henry was always invited to his house to see events held there, my husband did not welcome the notion that one of his subjects might be seen to equal, if not outdo, his own court.
It was not only Henry who was starting to be displeased with Cromwell. My brother heard that Cromwell had countermanded one of his orders given as Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, and was not best pleased.
“He makes me look subservient!” George said, his cheeks flaming. “As though he is my better, my master!”
Pride is a strange master. People who wear his livery brashly are often insecure. My brother was one of them. He was haughty about court, and earned many foes for his pride. But in truth, he was unsure of himself, and this was why he seemed so bold. It was a feint; a mask worn to play a part. I understood, for I felt the same.
“I am sure he merely thought he was saving you time and effort,” I said, setting aside my book.
It was a French copy of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes with a separate commentary. Illuminated in bright colours, and with bold, black writing, it was stunning. The initial letters of each section of text were highly decorated, sitting in a background of sky-blue and dusky pink, sparkling with gold. At the head of the text, there was a shield combining Henry’s arms and mine, done out in seven colours. Produced by Flemish craftsmen working in England, it had been a commission from Henry for me, and I was proud of it. The front cover carried my arms, in enamel on a base of silver, topped with a crown. The four corners of the book were decorated with brass, and each engraved with a heraldic beast; a crowned lion rampart, a dragon, a crowned falcon and a greyhound. Two decorated brass clasps closed it, designed by Holbein. It was one of my dearest possessions. Henry had ordered it for me, knowing my tastes were as French as my lingering accent, and such devotion to detail reminded me of his love.
Sometimes I took it into my hands, not to read, but just to draw comfort from.
Putting it on the seat beside me, I went on. “Write to Cromwell, brother. He is our ally. He would not willing step on your toes.”
“He takes me for granted, Anne,” he said. “And it will not be borne. I shall write to him, and good Master Secretary will come to understand that he may not soil my authority!”
I sighed as I watched George storm off, but at the time I thought little of this.
What I did not see was that Cromwell was indeed becoming a king. A man who used another as his puppet... A king of shadow and secrets.
Chapter Twelve
Whitehall Palace
Late October - November 1534
Emboldened by her first success in pageantry by showing herself to London on her barge, the Lady Mary gave a repeat performance that October. I was informed later that Mary arranged everything personally. She ordered the barge, planned the route, and made sure to stand on deck where everyone could see her.
I complained to Henry when I heard of the roaring crowds shouting acclaim for Mary, but he did nothing. He was too relieved that his daughter was well and his son apparently on the mend to act against her. “She has every right to travel,” he noted in a distracted fashion when I accosted him.
“But not to stir dissent.” I set my hands on my hips. “She steals love from the people that should be offered to Elizabeth.”
Henry would not hear me, so I took matters into my own hands. I demanded that Mary be punished by Lady Shelton, and the girl rapidly found her privileges, such as they were, revoked. Her meal times became stricter and her seat at the servants’ table was never left empty. I would not allow them to permit her to escape by claiming ill-health.
“She was well enough to take a trip down the Thames, in an uncovered barge, with her maiden’s hair loose and streaming down her back,” I wrote to my aunt. “Therefore she is well enough to eat her meals at her proper place and you will ensure she does so, or face dire consequences.”
Lady Shelton was growing ever more displeased with my orders, but I could never leave well alone. Mary scared me, and Henry’s newfound affection for her made me shiver on my throne of glass.
Mary was reportedly distraught, and spoke of preparing herself for martyrdom, like her mother. Katherine had not been idle these past weeks either. Horrified by the royal supremacy and actions taken against holy men, Katherine stirred herself. She assured those she wrote to that she wanted action, but not war. Her soldiers would be holy martyrs, called on by God to protect the faith from those, like wicked little me, who would undermine it.
One letter my father intercepted said, “when the storms of this life shall be over, and I shall be taken to the calm life of the blessed.” Katherine was ready to die, and if she had to, she would take Mary with her.
“A prophecy exists that says a queen of England shall burn upon the stake,” I said to Margaret Lee one night as we sat at my fire. The flames’ light flickered on the walls, across the tapestry, caressing the darkness. “Therefore I cannot rest until Katherine is gone. For if a queen must die, it will not be me.”
“Prophesies only have power when one believes in them,” said my wise Margaret.
“And how many do believe?” I asked, staring at the flames as they curled their crimson fingers about black sea coal. “There are some who think I cannot go on as Queen, are there not?” I looked at her. “In truth, Margaret, I am already amongst the flames.”
“But nothing can reach you whilst the King loves you.”
I nodded, but I wondered. Our problems in the bedchamber were frequent. I had even asked some of my more trusted ladies, such as Margaret, Mistress Aucher and Elizabeth Browne, about remedies for Henry. Elizabeth Browne brought me a tonic of mistletoe, and Mistress Aucher had provided blessed thistle, a plant known for its protective qualities against harmful spells, which could bring spiritual blessings as well as those of fertility, in both finances and a woman bearing fruit. “Carry it to bring joy to your heart and ward off harmful spells,” she said when she handed the imported flower to me.
Taking it in my hands, I knew what it would have cost her. The flower was not native to England. It grew in the stony, barren spaces in
southern Europe. Cleary my old nurse thought I had need of something to keep me safe. Perhaps she was right. I had many enemies, and they might not shy from wielding the dark arts against me.
“They say it also makes men better lovers,” she had whispered, bestowing a cheeky wink upon me.
Better lovers? I thought. Just a husband who showed up each night would be something…
Henry came but little to my bed. Dingley and the parrot were often with him, and I feared what they might say. If I did not produce another pregnancy soon, I wondered if I could rely on Henry’s love to save me from the flames.
It should have been our surest time, our greatest moment, but all was fragile, teetering on a cliff edge. All was shadow amongst the billowing flame… dust flowing from one circle to the next.
*
“I carry bad news from France,” I said to my brother as I entered his chambers. I found him groaning over his desk, working on legal disputes for Dover and the Cinque Ports. George seemed almost relieved to find me there with different tasks at hand. That was shortly to change.
